


Flowers of Spring

by Alexycon, FlowerSymbolism



Series: Flowers of Spring [1]
Category: Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Broadway, Canon Era, Domestic Violence, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Implied Melchior Gabor, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Letters, Marriage, Multi, Musical, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Romance, Sexuality Crisis, canonverse, hernst, spring awakening - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-05 16:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexycon/pseuds/Alexycon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowerSymbolism/pseuds/FlowerSymbolism
Summary: Set 20 years after the events of Spring Awakening. Hanschen is married and living in Munich as a historian with his wife and three beautiful children, and Ernst has been living alone, as a country pastor, in a small town near where they used to live. Ever since Hanschen left, Ernst has been sending him letters every week, without fail, and he's never gotten a reply. And then one day, Hanschen decides to reply.





	1. Chapter One

_Dearest Hanschen,_

_I have written so many letters and have heard nothing back. I don’t mind, however, just knowing you are receiving my letters is more than enough to see me through the days and nights still to come. Of course, there is the ever-worrying concern that my letters are not even reaching you, but I like to think this is not the case, and you are yet to send a reply. Or perhaps you have sent replies, and those are not reaching me. Either way, writing to you brings a smile to my face, and in the end that is all that matters._

_Onto more important matters. I have recently been housing a small kitten, who somehow keeps on finding his way into my kitchen. I think he must get in through the window, as I leave it open in the mornings when it is not too cold. It is winter now, and bitterly cold, so I am letting him stay inside the house, as I now leave the window firmly closed to keep in the heat. He, and I think they are a he, is rather small and adores cuddles, and he doesn’t seem to have an owner, so I have made it my duty to leave milk and food out for him each day. I am yet to give my new friend a name. Perhaps you might think of one for me?_  
I shall leave this with you to ponder over. Unfortunately, my letter cannot be as long as all the others have been so far, as I have a very busy week ahead, and will surely forget to send the letter if I do not sit down, write it and send it off in one day. I do hope to hear from you soon.  
Yours, forever and always,

_Ernst Robel  
_

* * *

  
The house was lovely. Quaint, but large enough to house the entire family that resided within comfortably. The garden was big enough for the three children to run around and play, with room still for Hanschen and his wife could oversee. The small yet extensive library turned study was a secret haven for the restless mind. Books on everything you could imagine, and even things of which the imagination could never conceive on its own. Folklore, fantasy, history, and science, all living in a sanctuary for those who wanted to escape for hours at a time into the world of books.

Hanschen Rilow was one of those people. Someone who needed a means of escape. To retreat to a place of quiet, somewhere he could sit in solitude and harbour himself away from the harsh gaze of reality. Although his reality was far from harsh, the cold grew ever colder with each passing moment, and the comfort of books filled him with the warmth and solace he desired. Here he could sit and think, among his rows of books and collections that he confides in.

He didn’t have an unpleasant life. He had a wife, and three gorgeous children, who all loved him more than the earth itself. The eldest, Lammermeier, was tall, golden-haired, and athletic. Top of the class, and captain of almost every sports team at his school. Week after week Hanschen met a different yet pleasant enough girl who had come home with Lammermeier from school, and he didn’t see them again until their mother came home later that evening. He was aware of what Lammermeier was doing with these girls, but he didn’t pester him about it. Hanschen trusted he had taught his son well, as he had been taught, and how his second son and daughter would also be taught when they reach the age where they would be able to comprehend more mature thoughts and ideas. His daughter, Johanna, the middle child, was more delicate and soft-spoken than her older brother, but just as golden and wonderful. She was an avid reader, violinist of a talent way beyond her years, and a great lover of books. She would spend hours silently sitting in her father’s company, both reading. To most the silence would seem uncomfortable, but they enjoyed the others company more than anyone else’s, and could spend hours on end in their haven of silence, tea, and books.  His youngest son, Robert, was only four years old, and had no discernible personality as of yet. Despite this, he was an angel in human form, never crying or screaming. Robert would and could eat almost anything, including cake, puzzle pieces, and his mother’s dresses.

Hanschen looked up from the last of the letters he had received that day, taking a in deep, quivering breath, and letting an even shakier one out. Despite the request, naming a cat was certainly not what Hanschen’s mind wanted to ponder over. He wanted to write back- truly, he did- but sending so many letters a week would only arouse suspicion in his wife.  
“Hanschen?”

The call of Sofia pulled him back to reality, and he sat up straight in his chair, running a hand through his hair with a sigh.

“Dear? Are you joining us for dinner?” Sofia, his wife, appeared at the door. She was pretty and fair skinned, with dark hair perfectly framing her slim face and contrasting her rosy complexion.

“Yes. I was just filing these letters, and then I’ll be right with you.” He rose from his chair, stashing the letter away in an open drawer.

 

* * *

 

“Who was that from, dear?” Sofia asked as they walked down the hallway together toward the dining room.

“Only Herr Seidel. He was enquiring about the Parisian letters I currently have in my possession. He wants to auction them off.”

“And I do hope you are taking him up on that offer. Those documents are worth an awful lot of money, Hanschen.”

Hanschen sighed as he sat down at the dinner table to join Sofia, Lammermeier and Johanna, where a large roast turkey was laid out, freshly prepared, and piping hot. “I’m not sure.”

“Hans! You must!”

“What’s this, father?” Lammermeier questioned, already indulging in his dinner before anyone else had even finished serving themselves.

“The Parisian letters. Do you remember those, Lammermeier?”

“The letters from the prostitute who people believe were written to Jean-Édouard Vuillard?”

“Lammermeier! Don’t discuss such vulgar things at the dinner table,” Sofia snapped, slapping her son’s hand lightly has he went to eat a mouthful of roast turkey.

“The very same.” Hanschen nodded, ignoring his wife’s request to cease conversation. “Herr Seidel, your friend’s father, wishes to auction them off in Paris later this year.”

“Later this year? But you won’t have finished working on them, father!” Johanna protested, looking to her father with a frown of concern.

“Yes, Johanna, but your father agrees that the best thing to do is to auction them off to someone who can  _better study the letters_.” Sofia smiled at her two children, who did not look at all pleased with this decision. Hanschen stayed silent. He did what his wife wanted, whether he spoke out against it or not, so he had decided long ago that it was better to not protest than to speak out against her and cause another argument.

Once, a long time ago, he might have spoken out against his wife on matters such as these. But now he didn’t. He couldn’t. If he spoke out against her, he would face the wrath of a woman who was different from any other he had met in his life. This woman wasn’t kind, like his mother, or wise, like his childhood Governess. She was unpredictable, and stuck in her own ways, something Hanschen was not used to until the minute he stepped foot into their new home. Of course, initially, he stood up against her, having his own views and ways just as strong and set in stone as hers, but as the years went on, he found it harder to fight her, intellectually and physically. Intellectually, it was like they were on two different wavelengths, and could never see eye to eye. As for physically, well, Hanschen had decided it was never worth fighting back.

He had often thought about how his life would have been had he chosen a different wife. He had seen many women over the years, none of which particularly pleased him but ,thinking back on it, were easily more agreeable than the woman he had ended up with. He had often thought about how his life would have been had he stayed alone, living in a small apartment in the heart of somewhere more progressive, where men could live alone and not be suspected of anything malicious. He supposed that was subjective to who the man was, what his profession was, what he looked like. He also supposed that someone like him would absolutely arouse suspicion had he never gotten married and lived the way he wanted.  
  
“Excuse me a moment.” Hanschen pardoned himself, standing up and abruptly leaving the room, his plate of food untouched. He needed space to think, as he often did.

He very often thought, and very much hated it when he did. When he was left alone to his thoughts, they often turned to one of two things- the hopes he had had as a child with ambitions and goals that he once thought attainable, or the beautiful, dark haired boy who wrote him letters every week. Sometimes both thoughts intertwined, visiting him in the night and latching onto him like a warm hug or a knife to the chest. Very rarely did these thoughts visit him during the day. Only in the quiet moments sitting in his study where he settled down to write a letter in reply to the many, many letters he had received did he reminisce on how his heart leaped into his throat as he read ‘ _Dearest Hanschen_ ’ in that familiar hand, and how his heart continued to choke him until he was gasping for air the further he got down the page. He was practically drowning, only saved by the sweet release of ‘ _Yours, forever and always_ ’.

He reached his study and shut the door behind him, resting against it for a moment. He took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly, tilting his head back and resting it against the door, a tear rolling down his cheek. He had to stop the intrusive thoughts before they persuaded him to do something he would later regret. At night, in bed, he couldn’t act on his impulses for fear of waking Sofia, but here and now, in the light of day, he was at risk of acting upon them. Thinking on how hard he had worked to get to the point he was at, the position he had, he couldn’t let that all be for nothing. And yet he found himself moving to his desk, pulling out some paper and dropping into his armchair. He shooed away the part of his brain screaming at him to stop and think, the rational voice which sounded exactly like his wife telling him exactly what she wants him to do which is to stop, and think, and take her side. To agree with her. To do what she wants.  
  
But he does what he wants, for the first time in so long, and puts pen to paper.

~~Friend,~~  
~~Ernst,~~    
~~Darling,~~    
~~My all, my everything,~~

_Dearest Ernst._


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ernst lives a peaceful life out in the country, but when faced with a moral dilema that goes against his job and his own person, and a chance letter on his doorstep, he finds his thoughts conflicting with his morality.

_Dearest Ernst,_ **  
**

_Forgive me for not yet writing back but believe me I have been reading every single word. I have been unable to summon up quite the right words to express…well, anything to you. It’s more difficult than one would imagine, to sit down and write a letter like this. In fact, it may even be more difficult than I anticipated now that I am sitting here and already putting pen to paper._

_Truth be told, Ernst, I couldn’t bring myself to write to you. There are many reasons for my lack of reply, most of those reasons circling back to my wife. I wonder, Ernst, if you too have married. Oddly enough, I can’t imagine you with children of your own. Perhaps you may prove me wrong._

_With your permission, perhaps I might arrange a visit to see you? After all, a break to the country would be nice, to escape the busy city life, and I would rather like to be in your company for a day or so. I must repay you for my lack of reply somehow, in any case._

_I hope to hear back from you soon._

_Hanschen_

 

* * *

Ernst Robel had a peaceful life. He lived in a small, homely cottage in a small, homely village. His house sat on the edge of the village green, only a short walk from the church. The congregation were his friends during the day, and his small kitten and housekeeper were his company in the warm afternoons and cool evenings. Sometimes he would take walks through the village green, greeted by members of the public and young children who were fond of him, as he often brought freshly baked pastries to the Sunday School students on his way to the church.

As he moved through the garden, he would wave to families who called out his name, giving them a warm smile as he passed. Truly, Pastor Robel had been blessed with a beautiful life out here in the country, away from the bustling cities and the busy streets and the loud, brusque crowds. For the most part, he was content. Not happy, but content. Or perhaps lucky better described how he felt about the life he had been presented with. After all, there were no suspicions or rumours, no paranoia or anxiety that perhaps the world might discover the thing he kept bottled up and hidden away. The warm, golden days of his youth, a well-kept secret between two who longed to be together again. He knew they could not. The fantasies he replayed repeatedly in his head when left to his own thoughts, at night in bed, were simply dreams. Dreams that, to a young boy lost in the wonder, seemed so attainable, but to a young man trapped in a box he had create for himself, seemed delusional. Despite the hole that could not be filled, he was still lucky.

One day - a sunny, warm afternoon - whilst Ernst was on his way home, he was stopped just outside the church.

“Pastor Robel?”

A young boy stood behind him, alone with a distressed look on his face. Ernst frowned, moving onto his knee, to the eye level of the boy. “Kurt? What’s the matter?” He briefly looked around himself, then back at the distressed boy. “Where’s your mother?”

“Pastor Robel, I need your help.” The poor boy looked as if he were about to cry.

“Surely. What’s the matter, Kurt?”

“H-Herr Zirschnitz’s son, Dieter, he…” The boy almost couldn’t get the sentence out, stumbling and falling over his words, looking as though he had seen his worst nightmare and heaven itself at the same time.

“Dieter Zirschnitz? What did he do?” The boy flushed red as he was asked, and Ernst felt as if a pit had opened into his stomach. Expecting the worst, he breathed in deeply and asked again. “Kurt, what did he do?”

“He…He…He kissed me!” the boy blurted out rather quickly, covering his face with his hands. Ernst froze, any possible thoughts or words he could muster catching in his throat before they could grace his lips. “I-I didn’t ask him to! I-I didn’t want him to! I-I might have wanted him to. I don’t know, Herr Robel! What do I do?”

In all his years before, and those still to come, Ernst expected to face dilemmas, problems that didn’t have a black or white solution, for the world was full of grays. And yet he never expected to be faced with this. Granted, he was honored that the boy confided in him with such a deep, possibly life-ruining secret, so Ernst could not, in good conscience, criticize Kurt; In fact, he related deeply.  The fear, the thrill, the soft lips of another boy, an embrace hidden from the world. A sin. In this situation, he couldn’t be Ernst, nor could he be Pastor Robel. So what could he be?

“Kurt, I-” What could he tell the boy? Could he tell him  _anything_? “Go home and go about your day. I will call for you to discuss this later. Alright?”

The boy nodded and quickly hurried off to where, presumably, his parents were waiting for him. Ernst thought, for a moment, about what those parents would think, if their son approached them with this dilemma. He wondered if, perhaps, he should have told the boy not to tell his parents. Or perhaps that was why he came to Ernst in the first place. He wasn’t sure, and the uncertainty of the situation unnerved him.

Ernst hurried home, not even stopping to wave back at families and friends he passed on the way. His mind was racing, distracted by the dilemma he had been presented with. He had so many angles he could take, so many answers he could give, and yet none of them seemed right. Could he go against his livelihood and tell this boy everything? He thought not. But could he blatantly ignore his own feelings and crush the poor boy’s chances of feeling something? He didn’t think he had the heart to. So what could he do?

His thoughts were interrupted by a single, unassuming envelope that sat under the letterbox in the hallway.

He slowly reached down and picked it up, turning it over in his hand and examining it. Before even looking at the address, he knew this was unusual. Ernst did not receive a great many letters, and certainly none from Munich, sealed with wax. He clutched the letter tightly in his hands as he walked through the house towards his desk, a small kitten slipping out from behind an armchair and trotting along behind him. As he sat, the kitten hopped up onto the desk, settling down on the corner and purring contently. Opening the letter, Ernst tried his best not to get his hopes up. After all, it was unlikely that it was  _him._

He took his letter opener and gently sliced the envelope. Gingerly picking out the letter, he began to read. He could barely contain the grin that spread across his face as he read the oddly familiar handwriting. Despite the many years it had to evolve into something unrecognizable, it hadn’t. The mention of marriage, however, was…concerning. But as soon as the worry and doubt had crossed his mind, it was replaced by a single sentence:  _‘With your permission, perhaps I might arrange a visit to see you?’_  The excitement and the innocent wonder that his past self had once felt came flooding back to him.

Even after rereading the letter multiple times, mulling it over both in his mind and outloud to the small kitten asleep on his desk, he almost couldn’t believe it. This letter had roused in him the feelings he had felt twenty years prior, after a boy with hair the color of the sun had kissed him for the first time. Getting worked up like this over a letter? He felt like a schoolboy. Hanschen would call him a sentimentalist again, and begin to try and impress him. Ernst chuckled, lightly, let out a soft sigh and took everything in.

So what would he do? Hanschen had requested to come and visit him, but where would he find the space? He barely had enough room in his cosy cottage for he and his cat, let alone another body. Where would he sleep? He couldn’t possibly offer his houseguest the sofa to sleep on. He wondered if he should thank god for Hanschen’s reply. After all, he had asked to hear something and yet had heard nothing back, so perhaps it was fate, rather than divine intervention. And yet something inside of him told Ernst that it was neither and both at the same time. And there was also the question of suspicion. How would his neighbours and friends react to a handsome young man staying in the suspiciously single Ernst’s house for a weekend? How would that affect how they viewed him? What they thought of him? So many thoughts and doubts raced through his mind, so quickly he could barely keep up.

Before he had the time to process all the worries and fears plaguing his thoughts, he grabbed some letter paper, a pen, and quickly scribbled two words down on the top of the page:

_Dearest Hanschen._


	3. Chapter Three

_Dearest Hanschen,_

_I’d like to begin by telling you what joy your letter has brought me. After not hearing from you for so long, I was afraid I may have been mistaken of your address, or perhaps you were no longer…interested. In any case, I am pleased to hear from you would be an understatement to say the least._

_  
As to your inquiry about visiting- I would be truly blessed to house you. Of course, you must know, my cottage is quite small, and I do not have a guest bedroom. Alas, let that be the only hurdle in our way. I was concerned to say the least at the mention of escape. I do hope home life is going alright for you? Also, to answer your question, no, I am not married, and have no children of my own, unless you count the cat, whom I have decided to name Melody after my discovery that she is, in fact, a girl. I think. My housekeper informed me of such so I only felt it proper to give her a name that suited her best._

_As for the date - I suggest next week, what do you think? Just name a day, my doors are always open to you! It will be truly wonderful to have you around the house for a weekend after being apart from you for so long._

_  
Yours, forever and always,_

_  
Ernst_

 

* * *

 

Lammermeier Rilow was good at a lot of things. Keeping secrets was not one of them. So when his sister showed him a letter from their father to a man in the country that she found on his desk, he couldn’t just keep it to himself. He hurried downstairs to his father’s study, where he found him engrossed in a book.

“Father?” He rapped on the open door, speaking softly so as not to make him jump.

Hanschen looked up from his book, taking a moment to register what was going on. “Ah, Lammermeier. Is everything alright?”

“Yes, father. I wanted to ask you about something.” He moved into the study, closing the door behind him. Lammermeier walked over to the desk and sat himself down on the edge of it.

“Surely. What’s on your mind?” Hanschen angled himself to face his son, giving him his full attention.

“Johanna was in here early, whilst you and mother were at work.”

“Mhmm?” He raised an eyebrow questioningly. “And?”

“She found this.” Lammermeier pulled the letter out of his jacket pocket, almost shamefully holding it out to his father. “She wanted to keep it from you, but I insisted we told you! I’m sorry, father-”

“No, no, it’s alright.” He turned the letter over in his hand, remembering all he had wrote while encapsulated in that feeling of longing and helplessness.

“We…may have read the others also.”

“The others?” Hanschen looked to the drawer where he kept all of Ernst’s letters, noticing for the first time that it wasn’t completely shut. “Lammermeier, you shouldn’t root around in-”

“Father, please. Don’t be cross. We had our reasons! You’ve been keeping this from us.”

“I’m sure you two are far more disappointed in me than I am in you for snooping.”

“Not at all father!”

“…No?” This was not the answer Hanschen had expected. He had taught his children to be tolerant, but their mother had taught them otherwise…

“Will we ever get to meet him, father?” Hanschen gave him a questioning look, as if to say ‘who?’. “Ernst Robel! The man in the letters. Will we get to meet him? I would love to.”

Hanschen was beyond surprised at his son’s reaction. “I-…No, no I don’t think so.”

“But you’re visiting him! Perhaps I could come too! To meet him.”

“I- No, no you can’t come with me.” He could have laughed. For a boy who knew so much about romance and relationships, Hanschen was surprised at his son’s ineptitude to figure out what the visit was to entail. “Why are you so interested in him anyway?”

“It’s a huge secret! How could I not he interested? It’s so…exciting. You’re such a…a radical, father. Going against society like that!”

“Now, I am hardly a radical. I married your mother and she is my wife. That is the most conforming a man could be. Now Ernst, well…he could be considered one, I suppose.”

“Is he married too, father?”

“No. He’s not.”

“Then he’s, like, your mistress!”

Hanschen chucked at this, shaking his head. He loved his son, and he enjoyed his company, despite the more awkward conversation. “Perhaps.”

“Do you love him, father?” Lammermeier asked sincerely.

Hanschen looked at him for a moment, watching his son’s curious face. Something about it seemed…longing. His eyes were begging his father for the correct answer. “One could say that, yes.”

“But you love mama also?”

“…One could say that, yes.”

“Fascinating. Does that mean, father, that I could meet with a girl and also be in love with a boy?”

“Well, not quite. It is perfectly reasonable for you to have an attraction to both, however both at the same time is…not exactly…the right thing to do.”

Lammermeier gasped, as if he has just realized something. “That’s why you kept it from us!”

Hanschen nodded solemnly.

“But that’s alright. I won’t tell mama.” He thought for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak, thought for another moment, before actually speaking. “…I understand how you feel, dad. A-About, y’know…this man.” He paused, expecting his father to question it, but he didn’t. So he went on. “There’s…this boy, in my class. I…I like him a lot. I thought that was wrong, because you’re supposed to like girls but…it’s not that way at all, is it?”

“Of course not. You can’t help who you are attracted to, Lammermeier.” Hanschen rested a hand on his son’s arm. He felt glad that his son had felt like he could be open with him about the situation, and was oddly glad he had accidently found Ernst’s letters. “However, as happy as I am to discuss such matters with you, do you not have schoolwork to do?” Lammermeier, realising this was his cue to leave, nodded and moved to the door. He paused, turning back with a small, sheepish smile.

“I love you, father.” And then he left.

Hanschen began to get back to what he’d originally set out to do that afternoon- pack a small bag for his weekend in the country. However, as he was putting away socks and shirts, he  mulled over the conversation he’d had with his son. He found it only fitting that his son would inherit not only his inquisitiveness and golden hair, but also his preference for all sexes. Yet, Herr Rilow still distantly hoped that the love of his son’s life would end up being a woman, he’d experienced firsthand what it felt like when that was not the case.

After having finished packing all that he needed for the weekend, Hanschen kissed his wife and children goodbye and left to go to the train station. As he was leaving the house, he gave one last encouraging look to his eldest son, and a knowing one to his daughter. He was not stupid, he knew his children- by this time, Johanna had most certainly been told by Lammermeier about his conversation with the latter. And so he left, hoping that, for just two days, he would be able to feel the love he’d been denied by his wife.

 

* * *

 

“Mother? May I speak with you?” Lammermeier asked, soon after breakfast.

“Of course, my boy. What is it?” Sofia answered, looking up from her book.

“Mother, you have to promise me that you will hear me out until the end, and you won’t be cross. Please, don’t be cross! Know that I love you very much and I don’t wish to upset you!”

“Lammermeier, dear, you’re frightening me! What do you wish to tell me that’s so grave?”

“Mother, you already know I’m of an age where I am interested in more than books and soccer games. You know that every so often, I bring a girl home with me…” While the boy was always so confident and brash, now he resembled a shy young girl telling her father that she spilled his coffee.

“Get to the point, what is it?” Sofia began to look impatient, frustrated. She was irritated by beating around the bush, avoiding the topic at hand.

“Mother, I’m…I’m not only interested in girls. There are boys in my class I’d like to bring home as well-” as he said this, his mother’s eyes seemed to glaze over. “His name is Icarus, like the ancient greek myth, and I am most fond of him! He has gorgeous brown eyes and I’d love to-”

“I would stop right there if I were you, young man. I’ve heard enough of this- this nonsense! I did not raise you for 15 years under my roof for you to come and tell me of your… unnatural tendencies.” She spoke sharply.

“But mama! You said you wouldn’t be cross! Please, let me explain-” th boy pleaded.

“I said enough!” she punctuated her sentence with a harsh slap across his face. A dark silence fell, and Lammermeier looked down.

Sofia sighed softly, rubbing her temples. “I won’t hear anymore of this. I don’t want to hear of this Icarus anymore, and you will not bring anyone home, male or female. Do I make myself clear?”

Through choked back sobs, Lammermeier spoke: “Yes mother.”

 

* * *

 

As the Rilows were having dinner in mournful silence, Sofia decided to start a conversation. “So, are you finding any boys in your class appealing, Johanna dear?”

The girl looked knowingly at her older brother, whose face was still red and blotchy. She knew what had happened and she knew what to say. She knew how to be a good daughter. So she replied:

“Why yes, mama. This one boy, Stanley, I find most endearing. He’s the best at gymnastics and trigonometry…” As she spoke, she was able to fool their mother, but Lammermeier could very well notice her uninterested and distant gaze. As the teenage siblings shared one last look that night, they both knew it was time to play charades.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Sofia Rilow decided to look through her husband’s study. The woman was many things, but stupid was not one of them. She was aware of Hanschen’s… shall we say…. Incredibly tolerant attitude towards homosexuals, and any other minority. Lammermeier’s freedom when it came to what he could read and talk about was too much, and he’d adopted such unnatural ways of thinking. And besides, Lammermeier had to have gotten his unnatural attraction to other boys in his class from somewhere, and it was certainly not from her. She would not let this continue any further, so she had to cut the problem at its root.

As Sofia was rifling through Hans’ drawers, she stumbled upon a brown wood box, of medium proportions. Taking it out, she noticed it was a box of letters. Strange. Hanschen never kept letters. And who was this Ernst, writing to him? Picking one up, she began to read.

_Dearest Hanschen-_

One letter had been enough for her to understand what exactly was happening, but she kept on reading, well into the early hours of the morning. By the end of it, she was appalled, disgusted not only by her husband’s cheating, but also by his choice of mistress. Yet, she knew to save her anger for a different time. For now, other measures would be taken.

Picking up Hans’ favorite pen (something about a gift from an old classmate, he mentioned once, with a fond smile) and a piece of paper, she began to write:  
  
_~~Dear Pastor Robel~~_

_Ernst._


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mega Fluff Chapter

Ernst had been watching the clock for what felt like years. 

Hanschen was supposed to have arrived hours ago, and doubt began to rear its ugly head. Perhaps he has forgotten, or he’s thought it through. He has a family, after all, it’s entirely possible he can’t make it.

However, Ernst’s thoughts were interrupted by three quick raps on his front door. Of course, it was not unlike him to show up late. As he made his way to the door, a sudden bout of anxiety began to well up inside of him. What if they didn’t click together anymore, as they once did? Would the years deem them unrecognisable to each other? Would their time apart make their conversation clunky and their words awkward? But Pastor Robel was a rational man, so he shook off any fear and quickly opened the door.

Most moments are more or less expected, even when they change our lives forever. A marriage, a birth, a death, things all people live through. Yet, sometimes, we venture into unknown territory, for which no lesson at school or sermon preached can prepare us. But it is these moments we remember most vividly, and these which we hold most dear.

So, they were silent for the first few seconds, as though they couldn’t quite believe they were in each other’s presence. Ernst, looking into Hanschen’s tired eyes, seeing the face of a man who learned to settle, learned that even if you work with the system, you don’t always get what you want; and Hanschen, looking into Ernst’s wide, doe-like eyes, remembering the fresh-faced schoolboy who dreamed of his life as a pastor.  Immediately after, though, came the dropped bags, the tight embrace, the soft tears of joy.

“So it really is you, then. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up.”

“Ah, the train got delayed. But, Ernst, you wound me - you know I wouldn’t abandon you like that,” as he said it, Hanschen distantly noticed how foreign Ernst’s name sounded on his lips. He’d thought of it countless times and yet he’d last uttered it almost twenty years ago, when they’d last seen each other, at the school graduation. Ernst went on to study theology in a village close to the one they grew up in, while Hanschen spent the next four years in Berlin, learning about great minds in history and the mountains and valleys of the world.

As they stepped inside, Hanschen began to look around the house. Small, yet warm and welcoming. In the sitting room, a tiny blonde kitten was snoozing on a plush armchair.

“That would be Melody- try not to disturb her,” Ernst whispered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Hanschen, slowly petting the cat’s head. “Ernst, I must say, your house is lovely. Much as I adore the city, this almost makes me want to move to the country.” A yawn. “However, it’s getting late- we’ll have time to talk tomorrow. I’ll take my place on the couch.”

“Hanschen, honestly, you mustn’t sleep there, it’s not comfortable. Even Melody can’t stand it.”

“I’ll manage, never worry!” he replied, carefully arranging and rearranging pillows so as not to disturb the sleeping cat. Ernst’s glance softened- so Hanschen hadn’t changed much, after all- still pretending to be tough and unaffected, yet he wouldn’t dare disturb a kitten.

A small sigh. “Very well, I’ll leave you to it,” and Ernst walked over to his bedroom.

 

* * *

 

It was the middle of the night and Hanschen couldn’t sleep. It was the middle of the night and Hanschen couldn’t stop thinking about the man sleeping the next room over, the one he’d been longing to see for years. And there he was, in his house, lying on the couch, staying up, tossing and turning. By this point, every square inch of Ernst’s ceiling had been mentally mapped, and Hanschen was just praying to fall asleep before sunrise.

Mercifully, a distraction came, in the form of footsteps emerging from the bedroom.

“You know, you aren’t fooling anyone. Come to bed with me,” Ernst said quietly, through the darkness.

It didn’t take much to convince Hanschen to move to the bed. It was fairly small- after all, it was meant for only one person, but two could easily fit if they wanted to, and they did. As they were getting comfortable, Hanschen said- “I’ve missed you so much, Ernst. More than you could imagine”. The last thing he remembers before falling asleep is finding himself in the warm embrace of Ernst’s arms, a soft kiss, and a whisper- “I’ve missed you too, Hanschen”.

 

* * *

 

Hanschen woke up the next morning to the smell of what he could only assume was freshly baked bread. He turned over in bed, expecting to see the soft, freckled face he fell asleep next to, but was greeted by empty space. He sat up, running a hand through his hair as he looked around the room. Frowning, seeing no Ernst in sight, he swung his legs around and got out of bed. Now, in the daylight, he could see more clearly the quaint way in which Ernst had decorated his home. It was nothing like his own home, which was ornate, and stately. Ernst’s had a homely charm to it, one that Hanschen quite liked. Paintings adorned the walls, of both religious and pastoral nature, as well as small wooden ornaments which hung neatly on a wall, or shelf. His bedroom had an entire wall of bookshelves, filled with books, both academic and fictitious.

Hanschen made his way into the hallway, a small yawn escaping his lips. Further down, he could hear a kettle boiling, so he headed in the direction of the sound in hopes of finding the kitchen, and Ernst. He was still in his clothes from the previous night. He had forgotten, in his haste, to bring any sleepwear with him, but had brought plenty of clothes, which was good, at least. He seemed to be forgetting an awful lot recently. As he reached the kitchen, he gently pushed open the door, only to be greeted by a dark haired woman preparing breakfast. Hanschen frowned, confusion slowly spreading across his face. The woman hadn’t noticed him, and so he coughed rather loudly to get her attention. She spun, surprised, and almost dropped the tray she held in her hands, with some empty tea cups and plates on it. The woman stared back at Hanschen, looking equally as confused as he did.

“Hello…” Hanschen said cautiously, looking the woman up and down for a moment. Ernst had said he wasn’t married, and yet this woman…Hanschen didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, and so kept an open mind.

As he spoke, the woman’s face lit up, as if she had suddenly realised or remembered something. “You must be Herr Rilow!”

“Hans–Hanschen, yes…And you are?” He arched a delicate eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe.

“Elke, Pastor Robel’s housekeeper. He’s, um, just gone out to the butcher’s, I believe. He assumed you would still be asleep upon his return.” Elke gave Hanschen a smile before continuing on with what she was doing. “He asked me to prepare you breakfast. You can have it now, or wait for his return.”

“I’ll…wait. Thanks.” Hanschen still seemed unsure of the situation, and also wanted to take the opportunity to take a look around Ernst’s home before he returned. Perhaps he could get to know the other better by this. He moved out into the hallway, and had a look around.

Once he had finished looking around the house, Hanschen ventured out into the beautifully well kept garden that Ernst had outside his back door. A small conservatory was attached to the end of the house. Hanschen hadn’t seen a door to get into it from the inside, so he didn’t even know it existed, but there was a door that lead into it from the outside, and so Hanschen decided to try it, in the hopes that might be unlocked. And to his surprise it was.

The first thing he noticed was the bookcase placed against the door on the other side through a tiny window in the door. The next thing he noticed were the dozens of overgrown yet perfectly green and lush potted plants scattered throughout the conservatory. Some had flowers, others had leaves, and they snaked over the furniture and each other, as if reclaiming their territory. He slowly walked into the center of the room, marveling at the beauty of it, light filtering through the patterned glass ceiling. Truly, it was a wonder to look at, almost as beautiful as the man who owned it. And then, finally, there in the corner of the room, covered by leaves and overgrowth, he noticed the wooden baby grand piano.

It looked unloved, yet at home nestled there in the corner amongst the greenery. Hanschen slowly gravitated towards the piano, as if some unknown force was pulling him towards it. He ran his fingers over the keys, so lightly that he didn’t make a sound. Slowly, he sat down on the piano stool, staring with soft eyes at the keys. He had a piano at home; a black, shiny grand piano, but Ernst’s wooden baby grand had a sort of charm to it that he felt his entire life was missing. Hanschen pressed a key, a worn yet clear note ringing out. He played a small run, smiling to himself briefly. Before he knew it, he was lost in himself, playing the piano as if he were in his own home. Time flew by and he didn’t even notice, losing himself in the serenity of the piano, until a voice jolted him back to reality.

“Chopin. Interesting.” Hanschen spun, seeing Ernst stood at the door, a smile on his face. “Good morning.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how much time I must have spent in here-”

“It’s okay.” Ernst moved over to the piano, perching on the edge of the stool beside Hanschen. Hanschen shifted, and the two fit quite comfortably on there together. Ernst began to play seemingly random notes mindlessly as he spoke. “It doesn’t get any love, I’m glad you found it and put it to work.”

“Really, I didn’t mean to-”

“Sh. It’s fine.” He brought his second hand to the piano, and began to play a tune. “Recognize this?”

“…Chopin. Raindrop prelude,” Hanschen said after a moment of contemplation.

“I must confess, I only ever taught myself the upper part. Perhaps you might help me?”

“I…I don’t know. I haven’t played it in years, Ernst, really, I-”

“Sh. Try.” Ernst flashed him a warm smile, a smile that was oh so difficult to say no to. “One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.”

Ernst counted them both in, and away they went. Although not an especially impressive duet, the two played impeccably with one another, Hanschen also assisting with the upper part when Ernst needed the help, seamlessly without saying a word to one another. They didn’t speak, the only sound being the piano and its music.

Once the song came to a close, they sat in silence for a moment. In the company of Ernst, Hanschen felt something he hadn’t in such a long time; he felt loved. He didn’t even know if he was, but he felt it. He felt safe, here, in the sweet cottage in the small German town. Ernst looked down at their hands, the slender, pale hands of Hanschen and his,  small, and soft. It was then that Ernst noticed the redness which covered the other’s wrists, which poked out of his rolled up shirt sleeves.

“Hanschen. Are you-?”

Ernst looked up at him, and saw the other had seen his eyes wandering. Before even Hanschen had registered what he was doing, he placed a hand on Ernst’s cheek and pressed his lips gently against the other’s, and that was the end of that.

Ernst was the one to pull away, after what seemed like an eternity, his cheeks flushing red. “W-We should head back inside, Elke’s made breakfast,” he said sheepishly, getting to his feet in a fluster.

Hanschen couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed, but nodded anyway. “Indeed. Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

 

After breakfast, the day went by in a flash, their day filled with laughter, and visits to museums, parks, and a small, bright cafe where the two shared a slice of cake and some tea with one another. Idyllic as it was, the two, for reasons quite obvious to them, couldn’t just openly express their love for one another during their excursions - something both men longed to do from the minute the blonde had stepped through the doorway. And yet something was keeping them from doing so, in or out of the house. Something that harkened back to their parents, and their parents’ parents; the act of courting. Which felt odd considering both men only had a limited time with one another, and were already madly in love with one another, but that strange courtesy still hung in the air, and both felt it proper and polite to wait before truly expressing how they felt.

That time came late Saturday evening, walking home from dinner in the village square. Both were having a reasonably pleasant conversation, but in each other’s eyes they could tell they were waiting until they walked through Ernst’s front door. And as soon as they did, they were against the door, against one another. It was unclear who initiated it, and the heat and passion of the moment blurred any lines there may have been. A kiss, a touch, and several hours later, the two lay tangled up in one another’s arms, a trail of clothes leading to the bedroom like breadcrumbs out of the woods. Hanchen lay, fast asleep and exhausted, in Ernst’s arms, who was stroking the other’s hair and gazing out of the window at the moon. He felt at peace, and happy, the man he loved safe and warm in his arms. He looked down at the other, running his finger over Hanschen’s red wrist, his mind briefly filling with awful thoughts, but they were soon put to rest as he quickly fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

If Ernst’s life had seemed quite idyllic and pleasant until now, Sunday was when Hanschen was pushed to his limit. Hanschen, an adult, a successful historian and a father of three, cannot get up early on Sundays.

“Really, Ernst, can’t we simply stay in bed a while longer… maybe until noon?” came Hanschen’s voice, muffled from laying face-down on a pillow. Ernst, meanwhile, had already gotten up and began to dress.

“Hanschen, you should know, I cannot just miss church,” Ernst replied.

“As much as I love you Ernst, at the moment I only have eyes for this pillow. Give me, then, one good reason to wake up now.”

“It’s my job, you goose.”

“Huh. Fair point, Pastor Robel. I suppose your excellent oration skills have persuaded me out of bed.” Hanschen got up slowly. “The war is not won, though, darling!” His teasing had won him a small smile from Ernst, and that was enough to make him forget his previous protests.

As Hanschen lifted his shirt to change into another, Ernst caught sight of a purple and yellow bruise, blooming on his shoulder. He rushed over to Hanschen, softly touching it, so as not to hurt him. “What’s this?”

Hanschen frowned, hurrying to put his shirt on. “It’s nothing, just-”

“Hanschen, be honest with me, what is going on?”

“Nothing, honestly, Ernst, I’m fine, I just-”

“I’m not stupid, I know something is happening, so just tell me what it is,” Ernst said firmly. This time, he wouldn’t let the answer be avoided. His questioning got him a tired sigh from Hanschen.

“Sofia- my wife- she… she can get violent when she’s angry, sometimes. Sometimes! She likes to keep, uh…discipline in the household, one could say.  It’s not…I decided  it wasn’t worth fighting back, so I just… let her. It’s never too bad, never noticeable enough to worry the children. Really, Ernst, it’s not that big of a problem,” Hanschen tried to give a small smile, but it was painfully obvious to Ernst that he was hurting. Nevertheless, he decided to drop the subject for the time being.

Right now, they had to go to church.

 

* * *

 

 

Hanschen Rilow does not go to church. While he may declare himself a christian, should a colleague or possible employer ask, he hasn’t stepped in a church in years. Which makes it all the more ironic that that is precisely where he is, in the back row of a rural church, by his own free will.

Being inside the tall and intimidating building brings back memories of his younger years. His classmate speaking out against the institution, the cold and impersonal burials of two of his friends, and the place he tried to turn Ernst away from. His eyes scan over the congregation, and they all seem to be deeply engrossed in the sermon, save for a few people. Namely, several villagers who were eyeing him curiously (And who could blame them? He was a complete stranger, a stranger who wore expensive suits and who had showed up yesterday, who seemed more interested in the pastor than the teachings themselves.) and a couple of boys, stealing furtive glances at each other from across the room.

To tell the truth, Hanschen had hoped he could spend the two hours in church simply admiring the view…but his thoughts had other plans for him. As he sat in the wooden pew, his mind wandered. His life always came back to the church, whether he wanted it to or not. The church who took his innocence away one distant winter, who gave him all the lines to the part he would play as a good husband, who tried to convince him for years that his very existence was wrong and sinful. And yet, it was also the church Ernst seemed so very attached to. Turns out that conversation in the vineyard about becoming a pastor hadn’t been just the unrealistic dream of a child, lost and soon forgotten. His deep conviction and desire to spread kindness were the only good things Hanschen saw in it.

He remembers his family back in Munich, and it feels as though a bucket of icy water was dropped on him. Johanna, Lammermeier, Robert… he missed his children, even if he’d been gone for just a little while. They were one of the few joys he had. While he felt fondness thinking about them, anxiety rose up in his throat, choking him, as he remembered- Sofia . What if she were to find out the true intentions of his visit? Hanschen shuddered at the mere thought of it. She won’t, though. It’s just a weekend trip, to a village, no less. It  will be fine.

He took a deep breath in, trying to calm himself, yet more and more thoughts made themselves known. He’d been enjoying himself all weekend, forgetting about his life in Munich. Forgetting how he managed to survive for years off of letters from Ernst, when actually being with him, touching him, made him feel more alive and loved than he’d felt in years. He’d indulged himself in forgetting that two days were not infinite, endless, that he must return to his life- and now it was all catching up to him.

Hanschen could sense emotions he’d denied himself to feel stir up inside of him. Regret about what he would’ve done differently, nostalgia about a different time, the painful idea of what could’ve been. He was fighting a losing battle with the years of dread and longing, and distantly he could feel hot tears running down his cheeks. No, nothing could’ve turned out any way else. Why entertain an impossible notion?

Pondering. It was a bad habit of Hanschen’s. Every so often, the man would try to enjoy a novel, and yet his thoughts took him elsewhere, every kind and beautiful hero in a story suddenly wearing pastoral robes and hiding a secret. In moments like these, Hanschen wondered why he didn’t follow Ernst. But then he remembered, and guilt and regret weighed him down as though he was carrying the entire sky on his shoulders.

They were 18, mere children. Herr Rilow discovered a journal. Shouted words, widened eyes, rough hands grabbing him by the wrist, palm against cheek. Train ticket to Berlin. Two weeks later, a handshake as farewell. Wide, doe eyes, distraught and searching for an answer. A bitter goodbye.

His mind provided the memory of an old doctrine of his- skimming off the cream. Back when he’d first said it to Ernst, he simply wanted to impress the boy, and yet the other did not seem to see his point, not even just to play along. In retrospect, Hanschen considered that there’s no use skimming off the cream when the milk’s gone bad.

“-And thus, I leave you with our usual teaching- ”

As Ernst began to say the final line of his sermon, reality came crashing back onto Hanschen, and he quickly dried his eyes and regained his composure. As people were standing up and starting to file out, he stayed behind, catching glimpses of Ernst as people walked past, waiting for him. When he finally reached Hanschen’s’ pew, he started smiling brightly.

“I see you’ve survived the sermon. So, what did you think?”

Their conversation until they walked out of the church, where Dieter , who was leaning against a wall, interrupted its flow.

“Pastor Robel! Could I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course, Dieter, what is it?” answered Ernst, as Hanschen moved toward a patch of green, where a group of people were gathered around, discussing the service.

“I see you have a friend with you. So, have you taken him to the bedroom yet?” he asked nonchalantly.

A look of forced confusion appeared on Ernst’s face, and he cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Dieter? I believe you should watch your language, especially on such topics.”

“Pastor Robel, I’m not stupid. I also know Kurt talked to you about my kissing him. What did you say to him?”

“I told him I would get back to him-”

“Very well, thank you, Pastor Robel. That’s all I wanted to ask. Oh- also, is your friend whose eyes you got lost in at the sermon staying for long?”

Ernst gave him a stern look but decided to humour the boy. “He’s leaving tonight, if you must know. And do pay attention to what you say. I once knew a boy who was unafraid to speak his mind, and well…”

“Will keep that in mind. Farewe-”

“And don’t break Kurt’s heart. He really cares about you.” This time, Ernst looked dead serious, so Dieter knew it was important.

“Yes, Pastor Robel,” replied Dieter earnestly, and he walked off, presumably towards Kurt.

 

* * *

 

After the service, they headed out to the village green, where stalls of all shapes, sizes and descriptions were lined up next to each other. Coloured canopies sheltered the people working them, providing everything from food to toys to coloured shawls. Hanschen looked around in what could only be described as awe, having never particularly experienced anything similar in his life before, other than as a very small child when his parents took him to church functions. He turned to Ernst, and saw that he had already begun talking to some members of the church,  so Hanschen started to head off on his own, seeing what the locals had to offer.

He didn’t get far before a hand quickly grabbed his wrist. Hanschen flinched, instinctively, and turned, coming face to face with Ernst, and his gorgeous smile. “Were you thinking about going off without me? At my own event?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the other.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Hanschen replied, providing the other with a charming grin of his own.

And so the two ventured off together, Ernst pointing people out that he was friends with, or that were important in the community. It was clear that, despite everything, he loved where he lived, and the people who lived there too. Despite the loneliness, Hanschen could tell that Ernst was truly happy at this point in his life. And he was happy for him, truly, he was. Jealous, perhaps. But happy for him.

“Hanschen?” Ernst’s voice jolted Hanschen back to reality.

“Huh?”

“I need to go and tend to something for a moment. Find yourself something to eat, enjoy the music. I won’t be long.” He waved, giving the other a smile and walked off, leaving poor Hanschen to wander aimlessly around the fete like a small, lost puppy.

Ernst assumed he’d find his way soon enough. Food and music sounded right up Hanschen’s street, especially after what he saw Saturday morning. Ernst hurried over to a family sitting on a bench, beckoning him over. He smiled as he approached. “Frau Zirschnitz! So good to see you,” he said, taking her hand warmly as he reached them. “Georg,” he nodded to the other, giving him a friendly smile. “Where’s young Dieter?”

“Off playing with the other boys, I’d imagine. We can never keep up with that boy!” Frau Zirschnitz exclaimed, letting out a small chuckle. “Who’s the young man with you? I don’t think I’ve seen him before…”

“Oh! Him. He’s…Georg, you remember Hanschen?” A look of recognition appeared on Georg’d face after a moment’s hesitation and he said- “Hanschen? I didn’t know he was visiting. Haven’t seen him in 20 years, it must be…”. And yet,  his attention seemed to be occupied elsewhere. Ernst assumed he was most likely focusing on his son, or at least on finding his son. Ernst turned to his wife. “He’s an old classmate of ours. Visiting from Munich for the weekend, on a business trip. He’s a historian now, you see. I’ve offered him my home for the weekend, to save the expenses of staying in a hotel, since I have the room.”

“Oh, how very kind of you Ernst!” Frau Zirschnitz clasped her hands together in delight. “That must be awfully exciting. Don’t you think so, dear?” She nudged Georg’s arm, who mumbled some kind of response. “What’s the matter dear?”

“I can’t find Dieter. He was just over by the other boys a moment ago, but when I turned to look again, he was gone.”

“He’s almost sixteen! He can go off on his own if he likes. He’ll be back soon enough, I’m sure.”

“But he’s always hanging around that Kurt Müller, the two are practically inseparable, and Kurt is right over there, without our Dieter.”

“Well perhaps,” Ernst interjected, giving them both a smile. “Perhaps he’s just gone further down to green. There’s a crepe stand right down the end, probably he’s just-”

“I’d better go and look for him,” Georg interrupted, pushing himself to his feet.

“Leave him be, dear, I’m sure he’s perfectly fine. Look, I bet you I can spot him right now. You’re just looking too hard!” She, too, got to her feet, her eyes scanning over the green, and the small crowds of people. “There! See?” Frau Zirschnitz pointed right down to the far end of the green, and the two men turned to see where she was pointing. “Nothing to worry about.”

Sure enough, in the distance was Dieter, sat on a picnic trunk surrounded by some young girls, and their mothers. On closer inspection, on the floor, just poking out behind a young girls head, was a tuft of blonde hair, and so Ernst excused himself, giving the two a friendly smile.

He made his way over to where the group sat and, sure enough, in the center of the ring of young girls, their mothers and Dieter, sat Hanschen, wrapped in someone’s shawl. The older women were doting on him, talking about their lives to him, and he sat and pretended to be interested, a charming, handsome smile plastered onto his face as the young girls braided flowers into his golden locks. Dieter sat on a trunk, weaving together what seemed to be a flower crown, made of daisies and baby’s breath.

As Ernst approached, Hanschen’s head turned around, happiness being quickly followed by a look of comical desperation, a silent plea to give him a way out of this hair braiding circle. Seeing Hanschen’s face, Ernst chuckled to himself, but gave in and cleared his throat.

“Good afternoon! I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I must sadly steal Herr Rilow here away- My housekeeper just informed me someone important called for him at the house.” As he said that, Dieter leaned over and placed the now-complete flower crown on Hanschen’s head. Hanschen turned around, giving him a small smile, while Dieter admired his handiwork.

One of the women nodded. “Ah, no problem at all, Pastor Robel! I must admit, we got carried away.” To which a younger girl replied with a giggle: “His hair is just so nice to braid!”

After saying goodbye to the group, the two began to walk the well worn path that led to Ernst’s house. The sun was setting, bathing everything in a warm, orange light. They began to discuss the various things that happened at the fair- Hanschen looked very intrigued at the mention of Georg, and laughed heartily recounting the events of him being swooped away by the group of ladies. As Ernst turned to look at him, he saw him haloed in the soft light, various flowers tangled in his golden hair, a carefree smile plastered on his face. For a sweet, delectable moment that seemed to last an eternity, Ernst’s heart felt full. Living in a tight knit community, preaching at a small church, walking side by side the love of his life, his sun and stars. Warmth and love surrounded him, and he would have given anything in the world to encase that second in a glass bauble, preserving it forever.

Hanschen looked at him and looked to be thinking the exact same thing. As their eyes met, silently agreeing that they were far away enough, they closed the distance between them, kissing softly. Ernst cupped Hanschen’s face, slowly pulling him closer. They stood there, embracing, for what could’ve been minutes or hours, but eventually they broke apart.

“God, I love you, Ernst.”

“And so you should!” replied Ernst with a giggle.

Hanschen immediately looked scandalised and said : “I was 15! I didn’t know how else to impress you. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure you felt the same way.”

“I was 15, too, you goose, and yet I don’t remember needing to display such bravado. You were always one for theatrics, weren’t you?”

They continued the conversation as they walked home, bouncing friendly jeers and old memories back and forth.

“I remember you saying something about Georg? What’s he been doing these past years?” asked Hanschen.

“Oh, you know, he went to Wurzburg to study medicine and then he came to this town. Being the only physician means you’re well respected and well-known. He also has a son, Dieter, he’s called. Actually, now that I think about it-” Ernst seemed to remember something. “Ah, yes. Another boy, Kurt, came a while ago to me for advice… you won’t believe why- Dieter had kissed him!” he chuckled softly. “Definitely brought back nostalgia, I mustn’t forget to talk to him about that…”

“Georg’s son, eh? I wonder if he knows…” Hanschen pondered aloud, a bemused expression on his face. The rest of the stroll, they thought back on their old classmates and where they were now. Some who had gone away to the city, like Otto, Thea and Melitta. Some whose lives became so turbulent and disappeared, like Martha and Ilse. And one who seemed more surrounded by the ghosts of those resting beneath the ground a town away, rather than by real people.

Once they arrived at the house, Hanschen headed for the bedroom, where his suitcase was, and began to pack, while Ernst hung around, watching over. As he put away his clothes, Melody tiptoed into his bag and sat down, purring. He seemed utterly confused as to what to do, reason telling him to move the cat, but his heart telling him otherwise. Meanwhile, Ernst was visibly melting at the sight.

“She wants you to stay…” Ernst said softly.

“I wish I could, but I must get back to Munich. Still, what I wouldn’t give for just one more day…” Hanschen sighed, looking down at his suitcase. Eventually, reason won over, and he scooped up the kitten, placing it on the bed, and closed his bag.

Hanschen got up, and made his way to Ernst, standing face to face with him. He rested his hands softly on his face, tracing his cheekbones with his thumbs, and looking lovingly into those wide, brown eyes and whispered: “If I could, I’d spend every waking minute with you. I missed you more than you can imagine…my moon…my love.” Something about the way he’d said it sounded mournful and carefully chosen, as though it was the last thing he could say on Earth.

It was Ernst who leaned in this time, kissing him roughly, almost hungrily, as though all the time in the world was running out and this was their last moment together. Behind the safety of closed doors, the two kissed more passionately than ever- bitten lips, hands clutching hair, breaths coming in short pants. They told each other everything they wished they’d said before, or hadn’t been able to over the years. They held tight, breathing each other in, not knowing where one began and the other ended.

A distant train whistle tore through the village. It was time for Hanschen to leave.

“I love you Hanschen, as I didn’t think I could love anyone in this world.” Ernst said before letting go of him.

Hanschen picked up his suitcase, put on his coat, and headed for the front door. Before stepping outside, Ernst took his wrist and looked him in the eyes knowingly- “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”.

Hanschen simply gave him a sad smile- “Goodbye, Ernst. I am yours, forever and always,” he said, leaving the house and shutting the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

The  sound of the door closing had reverberated through the entire house, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. For a while, Ernst simply stood, looking at the door numbly. When, finally, he moved away, he caught a glimpse of a letter sat on a side table. I don’t remember seeing this before. Surely, Elke must’ve left it for me and I didn’t notice it. He reached over to the envelope, turning it over to see a familiar Munich address. Taking the letter opener and slicing the top, he gingerly picked out the paper inside. His stomach dropped, and his heart filled with dread as he read the unfamiliar hand.

_~~Dear Pastor Robel,~~ _

_Ernst._


	5. Chapter Five

_~~Dear Pastor Robel,~~  
_

_Ernst._  
  
You do not know me and I do not know you. The only reason for my writing this is the discovery of dozens of letters to my husband, from you. I suppose our strict limits of correspondence are what stopped him from writing back to you, however many love letters you sent.  
  
Upon finding these letters, the reason for Hans’ desire to escape to the countryside suddenly made sense. I always found my husband’s tolerance for you people rather strange, but my mind did not entertain the possibility that he might’ve felt like that himself. Even sadder yet, our son seems to have inherited every aspect of his, including this one.  
  
Thus, I ask of you this - and trust you will follow my instructions, lest the residents of your village find out about their pastor’s less than Christian activities: stay away from my husband. I expect to see no more letters from you arriving on our doorstep.  As for Hans, I will make sure he won’t keep in touch. Should you still want to ruin someone’s marriage, perhaps try a family with a dumb broad as a wife. Truly, did you think this could be your little kept secret? I’m sure you’re an intelligent man. You must have known I’d  find out, surely. I know when this letter will arrive, so  don’t think you could’ve told Hans about this.   
  
I wish you the best,  
  
**Frau Rilow**

__

* * *

 

The house was quiet and dark when Hanschen returned home. The train has been delayed, due to someone hurling themselves onto the track. Fortunately no one was hurt; the poor fool mistimed his jump and gave the train driver enough time to stop. Hanschen imagined what it would be like to feel that strongly about wanting to feel absolutely nothing, and thought that perhaps,one day, he might know what that was like. He placed his case down in the hallway and hung up his coat.  
  
“You’re home,” a soft voice pierced through the darkness.  
  
Even with the darkness, Hanschen could see his wife there on the sofa, half her face illuminated by moonlight. “Yes. The train was delayed. I’m sorry if I worried you.”   
  
“Where were you this weekend, Hans?” Her voice was smooth, serious. Cold.  
  
Hanschen hesitated only for a moment. “I was visiting a curator, you know that.”   
  
“No, Hans, you weren’t,” she snapped, and that was when Hanschen noticed the pile of what appeared to be letters sat neatly by her side in a shallow box.   
  
His heart sank and leaped into his throat simultaneously. He felt that oh so familiar drowning feeling, but the cause was something new: dread. He knew what had happened while he had been away. Hanschen suddenly wished that he was the man who threw himself in front of that train. If it were him, he would have better timed the jump.  
  
“Darling, listen, those letter-”  
  
“These letters. These…letters!” She rose from her seat, a letter in hand, striding over to Hanschen and waving the letter in his face. “How many have you written? How many, Hanschen?”   
  
“Two,” he replied in a hurry. “I never sent a reply until I asked to-”  
  
He was interrupted by the back of Sofia’s hand harshly hitting his cheek. “How many?”  
  
Silence.  
  
“…Sofia, it’s late, why don’t we-”  
  
“Go to bed?” She laughed harshly. “If you think you get to step foot into that bedroom again, you are wildly mistaken.”  
  
“Listen-”   
  
Sofia shoved the letter into Hanschen’s hands and stormed over to the sofa, grabbing the box of letters. “You and your damned letters!” She pulled a matchbox from her pocket, taking out a single one and striking it.   
  
“Sofia-”  
  
She dropped the match into the pile of letters, and they were set alight. Throwing the box onto the tiled floor, she stormed back over to Hanschen. “You are forbidden to send another one of those damned letters again.”   
  
“Are you insane? You’re going to burn the entire house down!” Hanschen hurried over to the box, but was stopped in his arm being grabbed roughly by Sofia, who pulled him harshly towards her.   
  
“That man should burn alongside those letters.”   
  
Hanschen watched her for a long moment, fire burning in his eyes more fiercly than any fire she could set, before pulling out of her grip, grabbing a nearby vase and pouring the water onto the fire, extinguishing it. He stared at the singed, soaked letters, in silence. His means of ever feeling anything were now a burnt, damp mass on the floor in his home. Pained protest rose from his chest but his words caught in his throat before they graced his lips.  
  
“You are never sending letters to that man again, do you understand?” Hanschen didn’t respond. Sofia walked up behind him and grabbed his wrist, turning him around so he was face to face with her. She noticed the pain in his eyes and something resembling pity flickered briefly across her face. But also shame. “Do you understand me, Hans?” No response. A palm to his cheek. “ _Hanschen._ ”  
  
“ _Yes._ ”   
  
Sofia let go of him and turned, slowly making her way toward the staircase. “You should be grateful I’m keeping this between us.” And then she was gone.   
  
Hanschen slowly picked up the charred box of letters, almost as if in a daze. He slowly walked to his study, closing the door behind him. Resting against the door, he slid down onto the floor, a choked sob escaping his lips. He sat there and allowed himself to cry, cradling the box of now-unreadable letters in his arms. Years and years of friendship, and something more, were destroyed in the matter of one jealous minute. All because he was careless. If he hasn’t left the letter on the desk, she might have never discovered the others. He was careless, and now he had taken the leap he had wanted to take for so long. He’d jumped straight in front of a train.   
  
A shaky hand slowly lifted up the last remaining letter. He turned it over, reading the address in the beautiful, familiar hand. Slowly he traced his finger over the words. He opened it, quickly and shakily pulling out the letter. He read it over, treasuring each and every word and with each and every word getting more and more distraught. The words ‘yours, forever and always’ echoed in his mind as he sobbed on the floor of his study.   
  
He somehow found himself lying on the floor. Hanschen curled up, crying futile yet finding himself unable to stop. He clutched the letter to his chest, and eventually fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

1905\. A touch of hand. A cold, tight embrace. A stretched neck.  Lips on skin. Skin on skin. One felt nothing. Another felt something. The something was hard to identify, it was the same every time and yet it was something they could never identify. But money was money, and so he enjoyed what he could. The other did not. The other didn’t think to. Nothing was all that was felt. If something was felt, it was guilt. Regret. Fear.

The young man with golden hair had become a regular over the last year. He would visit him once a month, offered a bed for the night but never sleeping in it. He assumed the young man with golden hair probably had someone at home, and didn’t want to arouse suspicion. Most of his customers did. He never minded. He never asked. He knew better than anyone why people visited him, and he knew better than to ask, despite his longing to know. His feelings didn’t matter.

The young man with the golden hair was desperate, and longing for a touch different to his wife’s, that much could be clearly seen. But there was something more. A sad pain behind the golden haired young man’s eyes, whenever he looked into them. He tried not to, for it made him sad, but sometimes he did. The young man with golden hair always looked sad. Fearful, pained and sad. But it wasn’t because of this. He had the same, pained eyes before he even walked through the door. When he lied back and gave himself over to absolute pleasure, the pain remained. When he left, quietly, to catch the last train home, the pain was still there.

1896\. The university dorm room was warm, clammy. Two boys lay tangled up in one another’s arms. One felt nothing. The other felt something. The golden haired boy who made love to his fellow classmate with blank eyes and a blank stare felt nothing. A twinge of guilt. Shame. But nothing. The boy underneath found it new, and exciting. A handsome, young, golden haired boy brought him into his bed, after pining over the golden haired boy for almost a year. It was a shame the golden haired boy felt so little when the other felt so much. He kissed him, and held him, and loved him, and still he felt nothing. It wasn’t the same. Not the same as the sweet, freckled boy with deep, dark eyes he had once known. This new boy was like a puppy, and the golden haired boy was not impressed. But he was desperate, craving the touch of another in the secrecy and privacy of his dorm room, and so he played along.

1895\. The young, dark haired woman was beautiful in her white gown. And the golden haired man by her side suited her perfectly. The young couple were envy to all. 1896. A boy, strong and wonderful, born into the world with beautiful blue eyes and a radiant smile. The smile that reminded the golden haired man of a boy, so sweet, that he had once known all those years ago. 1900. A golden haired girl with skin as white as snow came next. The beauty of her mother, and the intellect of her father. 1909. Another baby boy, with bright eyes and radiant glow that put the sun to shame. Three beautiful children born from two beautiful parents. The golden haired man, for once in his meaningless existence, felt something. He loved these children more than he had ever loved anyone before.  

1906\. Palm to cheek. Hand to wrist. Bruised arms. Bruised back. Bruised face. No one ever questioned why the golden haired man at the bank had these marks, nor questioned where they came from. He left the bank later that year. Decided to take up a profession where he could work from home, he said. Better for his family, he said.

1908\. “Father, why does mama get so angry at you?” And to this, the golden haired man had no answer. He thought about the question tangled up in a stranger’s arms. He thought about the guilt he felt, sleeping with a stranger and not the man he had come to know for three years. Guilt for his death. That laid on his conscience as he laid with stranger after stranger. They didn’t question the bruises either.

1910\. The golden haired man sat in the living room, staring at the fire with red, blank, puffy eyes. He heard the front door open behind him, and saw his wife stumble through it via the mirror above the fireplace. She didn’t even acknowledge him as she dragged herself up the staircase. Sometimes she was alone. Other times, she had men with her. One night, the golden haired man recognized the man she came home with. He was beaten that night, and cried himself to sleep on the sofa. He left the fire lit that night, in the hopes that the flames might engulf him completely. 

1911\. The golden haired man lay on the floor of his study, regret and remorse filling his poor, poor mind. He awoke in a cold sweat to the sunrise, curled up in a pile of burnt letters, shaking on the hard, wooden floor. He clutched a crumpled letter against his chest in a fist. He didn’t notice his son’s concerned face peering down at him until he crouched down, speaking softly. “Father?”

Hanschen sat himself up quickly, letters clattering off his chest and stomach and onto the floor. He looked to his son, and didn’t bother to try and make light of the situation at hand.

“Father, are you alright?” Lammermeier put a hand on his father’s shoulder, his eyes fully taking in what was in front of him; hundreds of letters, destroyed. His heart sank for his father, and he could only imagine the pain he must have been feeling. “Oh, father…” The boy wrapped his arms around his Hanschen’s shoulders, hugging him tightly. Hanschen didn’t even notice his daughter come in, and only realized Johanna was there when he felt her arms around him also. He held his children close, and they held him closer, finding comfort in each other’s embrace. He had missed his children, and they had missed him, and this moment helped all three of them through the pain they were feeling, all in different measures. Hanschen didn’t want to think about what might have happened while he was away, and so held his children tighter. He suddenly he felt regret and remorse for what he had done wash over him, as he sat there in the rubble of his longing and desire, holding his children. As much as he didn’t want to in front of his children, he began to cry. And it wasn’t until then that he noticed they were crying too. And so there they sat, the three of them, wrapped up in each other’s warm embraces, overwhelmed and afraid, but together. They would stick together, the three of them, from now on. Hanschen would never leave them again, never jeopardize their safety or happiness for his own, no matter how much it hurt him to do so. He couldn’t put them in danger like that. Never again would he abandon them with that witch of a woman again.

He couldn’t.

And so he wouldn’t.


	6. Chapter  Six

Hanschen did not write anymore letters. He did not receive anymore letters. When he could, he stayed couped up in his study, among his books, where he now slept. Alone and unarmed, Hanschen would face his wife three times a day, at meal times, and no more, unless she had had a particularly bad day. He saw a lot more of her on those days. As did his son. 

 

One morning, a bright, brisk morning in April, a package arrived. Young Lammermeier was the one to answer the door, and knocked on his father’s study. “Father? There's a parcel here for you.” 

 

“A parcel?” Hanschen stood up from his desk, gesturing for Lammermeier to bring it over. His son placed a large, thin square wrapped in brown paper on the desk, tied with a bow of string and a small tag that read ‘Herr Rilow’ and his address. Hanschen moved around to his son’s side, eyeing up the parcel. Slowly, he undid the bow, unwrapping the brown paper with the greatest of care. There, sat on his desk, was a beautiful painting of a vineyard, sunflowers and daffodils framing a purple sunrise behind a brick wall. Hanschen stared at the painting for a long moment, his eyes wide. 

 

“It's a lovely painting, father,” Lammermeier said rather wistfully. Hanschen made no movement. “Father? Are you alright?”

 

“A-Ah, yes, fine, I just...Yes, it is rather beautiful.”

 

“Who sent it?” Lammermeier curiously picked up the tag and paper, looking for an address. Meanwhile Hanschen picked up the painting, flipping it over. There, on the back, in a beautiful, familiar hand, were the words ‘yours, forever and always’. Hanschen’s heart skipped a beat and his stomach dropped all at once. He shakily placed the painting back down on the desk, slowly sitting himself down on edge of it. He folded his arms, wrapping them around himself.

 

“Father? What's wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost.” Lammermeier moved over to his father, resting a hand on his arm. “Father?”

 

“Nothing, Lammermeier...N-Nothing. Something just came over me, a fit of dizziness, nothing more. I just...needed to sit.”

 

“But you're trembling!”

 

“I’m fine, Lammermeier!” He let out a shaken sigh. “I’m fine, I just...Go and finish your schoolwork, go on.”

 

“But father-”

 

“Lammermeier,  _ please,  _ don't argue with me. Not tonight.”

 

Lammermeier nodded, slowly moving towards the door, slipping out the study quietly. Hanschen turned. Slowly lifting up the painting, he turned it once more. Sure enough, he hadn't imagined it, the writing was there, clear as day. As he saw it, he drew in a sharp breath, quickly slamming the painting back down on the desk and rested his head in his hands. Seeing the writing, reading that hand, filled him with desire and utter dread all at once. Every emotion he had been suppressing for almost a year came flooding back to him in one foul swoop, claiming its prey. He was in grave danger, if his wife saw the back of the painting. He quickly got to his feet, his knees almost buckling as he hurried over to a wall, clutching the painting. Struggling to breathe, Hanschen took a painting off his study wall, replacing it with his new painting. He stumbled back to his desk, placing his palms flat on the surface and attempting to breathe normally again.

 

Ernst had made contact again, and Hanschen didn't know why, or how, but all he knew was that this painting was either a blessing, or a curse. Only time would allow him to figure out which.

 

* * *

 

Lammermeier Rilow swung lazily on the swing, hanging from the large hawthorn tree which stretched out and hung over the lake. The secluded woods near their house was far enough away that nobody went there, but close enough so that he was never too far away from home. Like his father, Lammermeier thought a lot. He liked to think, and came out to the lake to think on things such as his future, the future laid out for him by his school, his parents, society, and he liked to think about the brown eyed boy who he met in secret in the evening after school, under the Hawthorn tree, who lay just by his feet, shaded by the leaves. 

 

“Lammermeier?” Icarus asked, sitting up and gazing over the lake. “Can I ask you something?”

 

“Anything,” Lammermeier replied, a small, content smile on his face.

 

“What happened to the letters?” 

 

The smile quickly faded. “I told you, I’m not allowed to talk about that anymore with yo-”

 

“I won't tell anyone! I haven't told a soul yet, not even my papa and mama. Don't you trust me?”

 

“Of course I do, I just don't want to-”

 

“Don't want to what?”

 

“Disappoint my father. Or anger my mama.” 

 

“You won't if they never find out!” Icarus hopped to his feet, placing himself on the other boy’s lap and holding onto the rope of the swing. “It’ll be our secret. I promise.”

 

“You say that about everything I tell you, Icarus.”

 

“Well, it's worked so far!”

 

Lammermeier thought for a moment, then sighed, nodding. “Alright, fine. My father visited the man who sent the letters, do you remember that?”

 

“The day your mama beat you.”

 

Lammermeier paused. “Yes. And you know that mama found the letters, and got angry about it.”

 

“Just get on with it, Lammy!”

 

“Alright, fine! Well, father got home, and when he did, mama was so angry with him that she set them all on fire.”

 

“Every single one?!” 

 

“Not every single one! He still has one left. He doesn't know that I know that! I've seen him sometimes, reading it.”

 

“That's terrible.”

 

“Mama still holds it against him. I see him sleeping in his study sometimes, rather than the bedroom.”

 

“Did your mama kick him out?”

 

“Perhaps. He hasn't received another letter from the man since the visit.  _ I  _ think it's because mama is collecting them all and getting rid of them.”

 

Lammermeier swung higher on the swing, Icarus resting against his chest while settled comfortably on his lap. After a long silence, Icarus spoke again. “Does your papa know about...this? Me?”

 

“No, I daren’t tell him!”

 

“But why not? If your papa is...like us...then why would he be cross about it?”

 

“He wouldn't be, but if my mama found out…”

 

“Then I’d never see you again.”

 

“She blames my father for it. If she found out, I fear he’d take a greater hit than I would.”

 

“Your mama is a witch!”

 

“Don't say things like that! Mama is just...strict.”

 

“She's awful! It's like..all those princesses and maidens.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Icarus, as far as Lammermeier knew, loved stores, particularly fairytales and myths, fables and fantasies. “Your papa married an evil witch, and now princess Lammermeier, who is pure of heart and beautiful of face, just like all princesses are, is suffering because of it!”

 

“And I suppose you're the Prince Charming who swoops in and saves the day?”

 

“Perhaps. I’d much rather be a princess. Being the prince is too much work, you're much more suited to that job. Princesses can just sit around doing nothing all day, so I’d rather do that.”

 

“But in your analogy, I’m the one who needs saving. I can't save myself, and the princess can't save the prince! It doesn't work like that.”

 

“My mama writes stories about princesses who save princes.”

 

“Of course  _ your _ mama would!” 

 

“What do you mean by that?”

 

“She's so...progressive! Like my father.”

 

“Your papa would get along well with my mama and papa. He should meet them!”

 

“Icarus, you know we can't do that-”

 

“But why not?”

 

“Can we please talk about something els-”

 

“Come on Lammermeier! It’d be fun to introduce them to-”

 

“Icarus, please, can we just-”

 

“They're so similar, they’d-”

 

“Icarus enough! No! If my mama found out she would beat the hell out of me and my father!” Lammermeier’s voice rung out, birds flying from the leaves above their heads. There was a long, long silence. “I’m sorry, I shouldn't have yelled.”

 

More silence. Finally, Icarus said: “Enough talking. Lets swim.”

 

“Y-Yes. Okay.”

 

Lammermeier took off his clothes, stripping down to just his underwear. As he did so, his gaze was fixated on the grass, both out of residual regret for his outburst and the knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from Icarus otherwise. 

 

“Come, already! Honestly, Lammy, it’s fine. I understand. I suppose I hadn’t considered any parent could be so cru- strict. I forgive you.” Icarus beckoned, giving the other boy a tentative smile.

 

The two began to take shy steps into the clear and cold water of the lake. Each step sent shivers down Lammermeier’s spine, chilling him to his bones, while Icarus seemed completely unaffected, humming as he walked farther. This wasn’t the first time Lammermeier looked at him as one would look at a puzzle. Trying to piece together the bits that made up Icarus, though, seemed futile. The boy was unlike any other and he was completely smitten, regularly having to stop himself from doodling his name when he was supposed to be studying algebra.  _ You’re a Rilow, for crying out loud, act like one. _

 

Icarus turned around, giving Lammermeier and amused look. “Oh, come on, It’s just water! I didn’t know you were a chicken, Lammy!”

 

“I am- I am not! You know, not everyone is a water nymph like you, unperturbed by nature’s unfriendliness. I caught pneumonia by swimming in cold water once!”

 

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Hush, you babble when you’re flustered. Come further away from the shore, next to me, I’ll keep you warm!”

Reluctantly, Lammermeier began to swim further out into the lake, ending up next to Icarus, where his toes could barely graze the pebbles on the ground. Then, in a half second, Icarus was wrapped around him, peppering him with small kisses, his soft lips marking every inch of his skin, and, finally, a deep and lingering one on his mouth. When he pulled away, Lammermeier was completely flushed, his face a deep red.

 

“See! I told you I’d keep you warm!” Icarus said, bearing a wide grin.

 

Lammermeier wouldn’t let him have the last laugh, so he leaned in suddenly, grabbing onto Icarus’ shoulders, pressing their lips together. Eventually, they broke because they started laughing and neither of them could stop, so they resigned to holding onto each other, half floating and half standing.

 

Icarus rested his head on Lammermeier’s, sighing softly. For a moment, they felt as though they were in their own world, away from adults and society, and they could’ve stayed there forever, cold water be damned.

 

“I love you Lammy, even if you’re a chicken who can’t stand cold water.”

 

“I love you too, Icarus. Even if you’re a pompous peacock.”

 

The brunette boy suddenly moved away, grinning wickedly. “Pompous peacock, eh? Well, I’ll show you I have good reasons to preen! Watch this!”

 

He started swimming rapidly, eventually reaching the middle of the lake, where he dived under the water, wading into the depths. As he began to get lower and lower, a sudden current appeared. Icarus thought nothing of it, for simply being pushed around every so often wasn’t a concern- he’d been swimming for years, his fondest memories were of going to the sea as a child.

 

He was about to reach the bottom, where he’d spotted a shiny black stone, smooth and round, which he wanted to give to Lammermeier. With his eyes on the prize, and the oxygen in his lungs slowly running out, he pushed harder, swimming more forcefully, determined to impress the other boy with his find. Icarus reached out his hand, grabbing the dazzling black egg, closing his fist around it. A distant, distorted shout rang out- Lammermeier was cheering him on, he figured. A small smile formed on his face, just imagining his reaction upon seeing the stone.

 

As he turned his body around to start swimming back to the surface, pain burned through his leg, making it spasm. Icarus’ eyes shot wide open, fear grabbing hold of every part of him, making his heart beat faster than ever before. His teeth cracking from gritting, he clawed at the dark water, fighting it like a wild beast. He used every ounce of strength he had to try and pull through, but the current jerked him this way and that, and he felt as though Triton himself had dug his claws into his leg, breaking skin and bone, dragging him down into the depths mercilessly. In desperation, he opened his mouth, the water and the lack of oxygen filling his lungs with liquid and mind with cotton. The rock tumbled from his now-open fist, slowly floating back into the darkness. As strength left him, he focused on the light piercing through the water, caressing his cheek tenderly- surely, it couldn’t be this warm at sucha depth. _ I always loved the sun.  _ The boy waiting for him on the surface, another call, garbled by the water. _ Golden hair and golden smile, outshining all the stars and suns. _ His parents, his mother’s stories.  _ The brightest one unfinished, whose pages will yellow and remain only for those who witnessed its spark.  _

 

Icarus sank deeper into the water, his body growing numb. The last thing he could hear was Lammermeier calling out to him, but this time it sounded clear as day. If this was one of his mother’s stories, he would’ve risen up out of the water, the sound of Lammermeier’s voice bringing his strength back. But this wasn’t a story,  and Icarus was powerless as the other cried out in despair. He closed his eyes and let go.

 

* * *

 

 

Anxiety began to taint Lammermeier’s thoughts.  _ Is Icarus okay? What if he’s hurt? Is this just a cruel joke? _ And yet, he remained positive, assuring him that Icarus knew what he was doing, and so he cheered him on, being as loud as he could be, to make sure the other heard him.

 

Lammermeier couldn’t tell if it had been hours or minutes or seconds when he’d yelled out again, this time desperately hoping to see Icarus’ face break the surface of the water, that same grin still on his face. And yet time passed, and his conviction wavered, try as he might to be optimistic. When he still hadn't come out of the water, Lammermeier decided it was time to go after him, so he started swimming towards the middle of the lake, breaststrokes rapid and urgent, yet measured and careful. But the currents grew stronger, sending him backwards into the water, gasping for breath.

 

No matter what he tried, he kept being pushed back; but while he was growing weaker, he was also becoming more desperate. His frantic searching was tiring him more and more by the minute, and he could feel his muscles growing sore.  Lammermeier had never been an avid swimmer, he knew he couldn’t last much longer in this state.  _ I can’t swim to shore, no. I won’t leave until I find Icarus, and that’s final. _

 

As he went to dive beneath the surface of the water, he suddenly felt a hand brush his arm. He turned around, only to see himself faced with Icarus, who was floating numbly, face down. A wave of relief washed over Lammermeier, and he grabbed him by the shoulders, turning him around to see his face.

 

As he did so, his world came crashing down around him, one simple fact making the sun and all the stars go out, the earth to stand still. _He’s dead._ The realisation weighed Lammermeier down, numbing his senses, as if he’d found out his country had burned to the ground while he was away. Looking into Icarus’ empty, wide open eyes shattered his heart into a million pieces, which would never fit together the same way again. For all he knew, Lammermeier could’ve been there, staring at Icarus’ body for hours, before reality truly dawned on him, and he started crying, shaking with violent sobs.

 

Eventually, though he realised he had to leave, and was too weak to take Icarus with him, so he swam to the shore, each movement a burden unlike anything he’d felt before. As he reached land, he put his clothes on, and ran. Lammermeier, despite his aching muscles, ran as fast as he could towards his house, leaving the other boy behind, whose eyes would forever be gazing at the heavens.


	7. Chapter Seven

It was a crisp June morning, and Ernst’s day off, but instead of picking up a new book to read or starting a painting, he had to go and talk to Kurt and Dieter. He’d been putting it off for months, unsure of what he would say, what he  _ could  _ say to them, but now he’d finally gathered his thoughts and decided they’d waited long enough. And so, he set off to the Zirschnitz’s.

 

Once there, he knocked at the ornate mahogany door, and after only a few moments, he was greeted by Georg.

 

“Ah, good day, Ernst. What brings you here?”

 

“Good day to you too, Georg. I’m simply here to discuss some matters concerning Dieter’s recent behaviour, if that’s alright?”

 

“Ah, yes, of course. Come in!” said Georg, nodding, inviting him inside.

 

The house was large, filled with paintings, ornate silver bowls from Berlin, imported vases from Asia, oriental rugs. Stepping, in, the sound of beautiful piano music flooded the air. They walked through the double doors leading into the living room, in the middle of which stood a sleek, black grand piano, and beside it, on a low stool, Dieter was practicing a waltz, his mother guiding his hands, correcting him every so often.

 

“No, no, Dieter, there’s a time signature change there! From the top, please!” 

 

“Dieter! Maria! We have a guest!” announced Georg, and relief flooded Dieter’s face, obviously thrilled about not having to practice any longer, but as he saw who the aforementioned guest was, he seemed full of dread again.

 

“Oh, Pastor Robel, hello!” Frau Zirschnitz greeted.

 

“Hello, Frau Zirschnitz, always a pleasure to see you.”

 

“Shall I bring you some tea? A cup of coffee?”

 

“Ah, no need. I’ll only be half an hour or so, I don’t have too much to discuss, but thank you.”

 

“Well, come have a seat,” said Georg, leading him to the sitting room just as Dieter tried to slink out of the door into the hallway.  “Dieter, you can’t go to your room, this concerns you too!” He trudged back in, sitting down with a huff.

 

As the four were finally seated, Ernst began. “Firstly, I heard about your son’s end-of-year results, and I must say, I’m very impressed. Congratulations, top of your class once again. That’s quite an accomplishment!” suddenly, Dieter seemed optimistic about the topic of the conversation. “But I must admit, I’m not here to simply praise Dieter.” And just as quickly, the boy’s hopeful feeling was gone. “You see, I’m afraid he’s being a touch too brash, a bit too ignorant to other’s feelings.”At this, he gave him a significant look, and it was as if Dieter instantly understood. “I know it’s all part of being a teenager, but this is also the age when character is formed, and I’m sure all of us want Dieter to grow up to be an outstanding young man.”

 

“I see. Well, despite a mother’s bias, I can’t deny that I wished our Dieter was a bit more… sensitive, more collected, perhaps. He is quite prone to starting fights, sometimes even over subjects as silly as the correct interpretation of an ancient greek tragedy! Truly, it would be quite amusing, but encouraging such behaviour… “

 

“Of course, Dieter, we’re not trying to berate or punish you.” Georg elaborated, turning to his son. “We simply wish to help you.” A nod.

 

“I suppose throwing Franz’s book down the well was a bit too much… But, please, I won’t grow up a delinquent! It’s simply us teasing.” Georg sighed, clearly having heard this excuse before.

 

“Dieter, you’ll be heading to university in two years - you’re already fifteen - at some point, you must grow out of these habits!”

 

“Your parents are right, Dieter. You’re a smart boy, but you also get weekly complaints from people. Soon enough, your age won’t be a proper excuse for your actions.”

 

“Well, Wilhelm doesn’t have a problem with my attitude! Neither does Kurt!” he replied, offended.

 

His mother seemed vaguely exasperated by this point, and said: “Please, son, not everyone will tolerate you the same way your friends do! And maybe, they’ll stop too, in the future.”

 

“What we want to get through to you, Dieter, is that you must mature. You've reached an age where your life doesn't solely revolve around school, and your eyes and mind start to wander, so your behaviour must change as well. We've all been in your place and we’ve all had to leave our childhood habits behind. Improving yourself is simply a part of growing up. At the end of the day, you're still young, but we just want you to be more conscious of your actions. Teenagers make mistakes, we simply hope you'll grow from yours, not be haunted by them” Ernst and Georg shared a look, both recalling what had happened when they were teenagers, and how one year of their lives followed them, always lingering in the shadow of their adulthood. 

 

Though his dignity was shattered, Dieter nodded again, and he seemed to have truly understood the message, or so Ernst hoped.    
  


“Well, I must be off, I’ve other matters to attend to, but I suppose I will see you tomorrow?” asked Ernst.

 

“Of course, Pastor Robel, thank you for coming! We await future visits, under more... pleasant circumstances, however.” replied Maria, chuckling lightly. 

 

“Surely, Frau Zirschnitz,” he said, flashing a smile. Ernst said his goodbyes, shook Georg’s hand, gave Dieter one last look, and made his way to the door.

 

__________________________________

 

Ernst left the Zirschnitz’s house, heading towards the Pfeiffer’s, where he would have to speak with Kurt. It had been months since the boy first came to him, bewildered, confused and looking as though he’d discovered all the secrets of the universe. Now, Ernst had to keep his promise and talk to him, but he knew it wouldn’t be as easy as choosing a few select words  and giving a few meaningful looks, as he had with Dieter. It wasn’t that Kurt was stupid, simply that he had less experience and was quick to see the best in other people and trust them...In many ways, when Ernst looked at Kurt, he saw himself, 20 years before.

 

Having been deep in thought, Ernst hadn’t noticed how far he’d walked until he almost bumped into the Pfeiffer’s fence. Snapping out of his state, he straightened himself and opened the gate, walking to the front door, giving it 3 quick raps. Almost immediately, the door was opened, in front of him standing Mathilde Pfeiffer. She was a tall, lean woman; her gaze was hardened by the years, but her heart wasn't. Ever since she'd been widowed 12 years prior, she’d been raising Kurt on her own, and doing it well, despite what the whisper was .

 

“Ah, Pastor Robel! How may I help you?” 

 

“Good day, Frau Pfeiffer! I was simply looking to speak with Kurt, he wanted to ask my advice on something, and I just now found the time to discuss it.”

 

“I see.  Well, if you will, step i-”

 

“Actually, I would prefer if you called Kurt outside and we discussed this on the porch, if you don’t mind?”

 

“Not at all!” she replied, and then turned and called out “Kurt! Come here! Pastor Robel’s come to see you!”

 

Soon enough, Kurt was on the porch, and his gaze seemed to betray that he knew exactly why this meeting was called. Mathilde went back inside, leaving them to it. The two sat down on the pair of chairs next to a small table, Kurt gave Ernst an expectant look.

“Kurt, you’re a smart boy. You know why I’m here, don’t you?” started Ernst.

 

“It’s about … Dieter and I, is it not?” Kurt answered, hesitating.

 

“It is.”

 

“Pastor Robel, you must know- it was just the once! I-I’ve prayed every night since, and haven’t done so much as be in private with him, I-”

 

“Kurt!” he said, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Calm down. I’m not here to berate you, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

 

“Really?” Kurt seemed utterly baffled, as though he hadn’t considered the possibility.

 

Ernst took a deep breath, bracing himself for a long talk. “Kurt, know that I am serious when I say that our discussion should not reach other ears. I trust you to be careful.” A nod. “Very well then, let me start by saying I know how you feel” Kurt’s eyes widened incredulously. Somehow, he kept himself from asking questions, though he was bursting with them. “There is--was this boy. I remember, we were about as old as you and Dieter. He’d tried for months to catch my attention, and when he finally did, we went to a vineyard. It was the dead of winter and yet, I felt as warm as on an August afternoon… He had an entire lecture prepared on society, I suppose he wanted to impress me,” Ernst chuckled softly, and his eyes, looking over the garden, seemed to be somewhere else entirely- another time, another place.

 

A beat of silence. “We kissed for hours in that vineyard. I remember holding him, and it felt as though the entire world could crumble beneath us and it wouldn’t matter, because we had each other.”

 

“And then what happened?” the boy asked tentatively.

 

“Well, we did have some good years together. For a while, it seemed like we didn’t have to be sad, like we may just get a happy ending.” At this, Kurt seemed to look hopeful, engrossed in the story as though it were a fairytale and the two star crossed lovers would live happily ever after, despite the challenges they faced. “We didn’t. His father discovered his journal… his musings and writing about me. He was beaten senseless, and, 2 weeks later, he left to go to Berlin for college.” Ernst’s eyes began to water. “Our goodbye was a cold handshake. I recall him suddenly showing up to school with bruises and cuts and an empty gaze. In those last two weeks he didn’t do so much as find himself in a room alone with me. I wrote letters to him for years, with no response. And, I suppose, that was the end of it, the end of all our exploring.”

 

A mournful silence fell, as Kurt processed what he’d just been told and Ernst dried his eyes. 

 

“Kurt, you really have presented me with a new situation,” He said, almost to himself. “As a pastor, I should be telling you a different thing, and yet, as a man, I could not, in good conscience, condemn you for your feeling. I… I believe my duty is to teach you how to do good and how to be happy, and sometimes that means I must step away from the Bible and the robes.”

 

“Pastor Robel, I still don’t understand… what should I do? It seems to me, pursuing him will only wound me… should I simply give up?”

 

“I cannot promise you that you won’t be hurt, that your story won’t be cut short, but I promise you that you will regret it if you deny what your heart’s whisper. My only advice for you is to love fully and without regret, and cherish every moment you two have together, even if they will become mere pleasant memories to look back on when you’ve grown older.”

 

“I see…”

 

“However, I must warn you about Dieter can be... neglectful about your feelings. I did speak to him too, but I can’t say whether or not he’s taken my words to heart. For your sake, let us hope he has. I remember a boy who took too much too soon, and hurt everyone around him. I sincerely wish you to be happier than I was, and for you to know you and your love are not sinful or unnatural.” He let out a sigh. “That is all I can tell you”

 

As Ernst got up and went to leave, Kurt thanked him and went inside his house. The last thing Ernst saw before turning the bend to head to his own home was Kurt and Mathilde talking, their lips moving silently, and he could guess what they were discussing, but he wasn’t anxious. He trusted Kurt to have understood what they’d talked about and he trusted Mathilde to accept her son as he was.

 

* * *

  
  


Finally back at his own house, Ernst sat down on one of the chairs on his porch and began to process the day’s events. He had no idea what the future would hold for Kurt and Dieter, whether the world had changed enough for them to be together, whether the latter boy would realise that toying with other’s emotions was cruel. In some ways, they reminded him of himself and Hanschen, in other ways not. Kurt was more naive, Dieter was more brash. Mirror images, perhaps, but not identical.

 

Ernst’s heart still ached for Hanschen, and yet he knew there wasn’t anything he could do.  Just as he’d fallen into the habit of sending letters with no response years prior, he would learn to settle for sending paintings, letting the subject and the short message on the back speak for themselves. He was worried, the kind of feeling you get when you know something bad is happening, but you don’t know exactly what it is nor how to fix it. Judging by the marks and bruises he’d seen and the letter from his wife, Hanschen was hiding something bigger than he let on, bigger than he’d admit.

 

Ernst Robel felt completely powerless. This life was all he’d ever wanted, and he was content with it, as he should have been. For years he was fine with the idea that this village and this village alone would be his life for the rest of his years, but ever since he’d laid his eyes on Hanschen again, the ever-present dissatisfaction and dread gnawing away at him had grown from silent to unbearable, as his mind pondered over what would’ve been different had he followed Hanschen to Berlin, had he not settled for being a country pastor.

 

Everything inside of him was screaming to  _ go, go to him _ , and every day it grew harder and harder to ignore it. He wished for nothing more than to leave it all behind and get on a train to Munich, find Hanschen and kiss him right then and there, laws and consequences be damned. He felt like a schoolboy, thinking up these plans to run away and dreading his life.

 

No, he couldn’t run away, he couldn’t leave his life behind. Ernst Robel settled, as was his nature. He detached himself from his fantasies and lived his life the way he’d built it to be. He left his musings as just that, musings to be had on a porch at sunset, because Ernst Robel settled. He’d continue his never ending routine, doing the same things every day, because that was his job and that’s what he chose. It was a good life, an ideal one, were you to ask his younger self, and certainly a better fate than what other men had. He had an easy, fulfilling life, the thought of his lover, and how he was unable to help him, shouldn’t have plagued him, but it did. And yet, there was nothing he could do, or so he told himself, so Ernst Robel settled.

 

The sun was setting, and it was time for him to go make dinner and go to bed. He got up and walked inside, a million swirling thoughts left behind on the porch.

  
  



	8. Chapter Eight

Often in one’s life, there are highs, and there are lows. Hanschen Rilow knew this well, possibly better than anyone else who had been in his life. He also knew that, during the highs, things can and do swoop in and pull you down to your lowest point in an instant.

 

The garden, perfect for parties, was full of neighbours and friends, smiling and laughing, and enjoying food prepared by Frau Rilow. The sun was beginning to set, and children ran around on the grass as the adults sat around tables and chattered, drinking wine and making jokes. Hanschen sat on the grass, top shirt buttons undone and sleeves rolled up. His youngest son sat in his lap, Johanna by his side with a book. A young girl, one of Johanna’s school friends, sat with them, braiding daisies into a chain. 

 

“Father?” Johanna asked, looking over to her father, who was holding his sons hands as he carefully and safely stood up in his lap. 

 

“Yes?”

 

“Where’s Lammermeier? I haven’t seen him since lunchtime.”

 

Hanschen frowned, his eyes scanning over the garden. He hadn’t even noticed his son leave the party, being caught up in his wife’s socializing and networking. “That’s a very good question, Johanna. Where  _ is  _ Lammermeier…?” He carefully sat Robert down, placing a kiss on the top on his head. “Watch Robert for me, Johanna. Please.” Hanschen pushed himself to his feet, walking over to the gathering of adults, in search of his wife.

 

“Sofia- Sofia, have you seen Lammermeier?”

Sofia excused herself once she saw her husband’s concerned frown, moving over to a corner with him. “No, I thought he was with you?”

 

“No, I haven’t seen him since you brought out the food.”

 

“But that was hours ago-” Sofia frowned, beginning to get annoyed.

 

“I know, I know. I’m going to go and find him. He could just be upstairs-”

 

“I cannot believe you let him out of your sight, he could be anywhere Hanschen! And you know he’s not-”

 

“I know he’s not allowed to go and visit anyone without letting us know first, and I’m sure he’s fine, and he’s not-”

 

“If he’s gone to see that Icarus boy-”

 

“Sofia.” He placed his hands on her upper arms, looking at her face, which was plastered with a frown and clenched jaw. “I’ll find him. Okay?”

 

“You better,” she muttered, plastering a smile on her face as she rejoined their guests. 

  
Suddenly, the door burst open, and Lammermeier stumbled out into the garden, damp and shivering. Hanschen instantly hurried over as his son come through the door, ushering him back inside as he noticed the state he was in. “Lammermeier, where have you been?” Lammermeir’s knees buckled and he almost fell to the floor. Hanschen grabbed his son’s arm, guiding him over to a sofa indoors with concern plastered onto his face. “Lammermeier? What's wrong?”

 

“I-Icarus, he-” Lammermeier spoke as if he couldn’t breathe, like every word pained him. Hanschen sat on the arm of the chair, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

 

“Icarus what, Lammermeier?” The boy didn’t respond. “I won’t be angry at you. Please, just tell me...Tell me what’s wrong.” 

 

Just then, Lammermeier burst into tears, his entire body slouching forward as all his energy left him. Hanschen, unsure for a brief moment but quickly regaining his composure, grabbed his son, pulling him into his chest and cradling him in his arms. He was almost an adult, but at that moment he was a vulnerable child and Hanschen felt the need to protect his son in his arms, so that if the world were to crumble around them, he would be safe and protected. “I’m here...You’re okay, you’re safe...I’m here…” The boy sobbed into his father’s chest as Hanschen cradled him, stroking his hair and gently rocking him back and forth. 

 

“Now tell me what’s wrong..” He spoke softly to his son, resting his head atop Lammermeier’s protectively. 

 

“Icarus, he...W-We were swimming, and I know mama told me not to see him again, but I love him father- l-loved him, and I-”

 

“Hey, shh...It’s alright. I’m not cross. Just tell me what happened.”

 

“W-We were swimming, and...and I didn’t see what happened exactly, but he dived under and...and he never came back up. Well, h-he did come back up, but he was...he was…It’s all my fault...”

 

Hanschen understood, and so nodded his head and held his son closer to his chest. “It’s okay...It wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”

 

“He’s gone, father…”

 

“Shh...shh...it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault…”

 

Lammermeier tried to protest, but his sobs prevented any words from coming out. 

 

“Listen to me,” Hanschen said softly, gently moving his head away from his sons so that he could look at his father. “Your shivering, go upstairs and take a bath. We can talk about this in the morning, but right now I’m concerned about how cold you are.” Lammermeier numbly nodded, slowly uncurling himself from within his father’s embrace. Hanschen gently stroked his son’s cheek with his thumb. “I love you.”

 

Lammermeier nodded again. “Love you too, dad.” He slowly stood up, trudging out of the living room like a lifeless shell of the bright boy he was just hours ago.

 

Hanschen sighed, watching his son go in silence, rubbing his jaw tiredly. He just hoped his son would not be plagued with nightmares of a young boy’s dead face in the night. He hoped his son would not suffer the way someone he once knew must have suffered. Hanschen did not wish that upon anyone, especially his pride and joy. And so he pushed himself to his feet, and hoped to god that his son would rest well, and that his golden boy, despite the circumstances, would not suffer the way he and so many others had suffered before him.

* * *

Lammermeier stepped into the bathroom, the cold, smooth tile waking him up much more than the running had. He made his way to the bathtub, but his movements were robotic- well practiced, not thought through. His mind was wandering numbly, but he was too tired to follow any particular train of thought. So he simply went about it, distantly knowing he would soon be overcome by grief.

 

He turned on the faucet, stripped off his clothes,  and took a tentative step into the ceramic bathtub. Lammermeier sat down, leaning against the bathtub’s side, and closed his eyes,  slowly drifting off. Warm water slowly flooded around him, and his tiredness began to set in his bones, so he let sleep take him.

 

His eyes opened suddenly, and he realised his vision was blurry, water was seeping into his mouth- he was underwater. Distantly, he could hear the warped sound of water splashing on the linoleum of the bathroom.  _ Mama will be angry if I make a mess.  _

 

For a second, just one second, Lammermeier entertained the idea of letting go, going back to sleep and allowing his body to shut down. In the moment, it seemed much less effort than coming back up, facing his parents and his siblings and the world without Icarus in it. The image of the boy, floating limply in the water flashed through his mind, making him seize up. The pressure was building up, and as his thoughts raced, he could hear loud, frantic thumping at the door.

 

“Lammermeier!”

 

At this, he finally came to and got out, sputtering and coughing up water, just as the door was shoved open by his father, who was both relieved at seeing the situation wasn’t as bad as previously thought and annoyed at the bathwater flooding the room.

 

“What are you doing?” Hanschen asked, exasperated.

 

“I was … taking a bath.”

 

“Well, turn off the water Lammermeier!”

 

As Lammermeier moved to turn the faucet off, Hanschen sighed, speaking softly. “Don’t fall asleep in the bathtub again. Dry off and go to bed. I’ll clean up the water.”

 

After his father had left the bathroom, Lammermeier continued to sit in the tub for some minutes, as though he was unable still to piece together his day and come to terms with its reality. Eventually, though, he got out and put his clothes on, stepping out into the hallway to get to his bedroom. On the way, he passed by the living room, and though he didn’t look to see, he could feel Sofia’s disappointed gaze on him. He couldn’t bring himself to care, though.

 

* * *

The party had long ended, and Sofia had been tidying the garden and washing dishes all evening. The conversation that she had overheard had been playing on her mind all night, and so she decided to go and ask her husband what was going on with their son, why he had been so upset earlier when he came home, and what he had been up to. 

 

She made her way to the study, knocking lightly on the door. After no response, she let herself in, taking wary steps as she did. She rarely went into the study, and in fact had not been in there in several weeks. Her eyes fell onto the large wall on the left side of the study, the wall which used to be relatively empty. It was now full of paintings her husband had commissioned, and she noted that there were some new paintings on there since the last time she had visited the study. Truth be told, Sofia liked the paintings Hanschen had commissioned, all of vineyards and meadows in the spring, at sunset, on a winter morning. Walls dusted with snow, the greenest grass dotted with flowers, buds on trees bursting at the seams and ready to bloom. Beautiful imagery that even she appreciated. Truly, the wall was a cluster of windows, each leading out to a beautiful snapshot of the beauty that nature brought them. The beauty that being hauled up in a study did not provide other than in books. 

 

Then something caught her eye. A painting had fallen off the wall, and was laying face down on the floor. She moved over, picking the painting up off the floor as her eyes scanned the wall for the empty space it was missing from, eager to return the painting to it’s home. As she looked back down at the painting, she noticed that in the centre of the canvas, written clear as day in black ink, were the words ‘yours, forever and always’. Her stomach dropped, and she felt her body tense up upon reading the words. The grip she held the painting with tightened, as did the clench of her jaw. 

 

Just then, the door swung open, and Hanschen trudged in, sleeves rolled up, looking weary. His eyes fell on his wife, and then the painting in her hand, and froze. Sofia slowly turned to look at him, his stomach doing flips as he slowly came to the realization of what was happening in that moment. Once again, he had been careless, and now he was paying the price.

 

“Hans…”

 

“Listen, I can explai-”

“You don’t need to explain.” She looked up at him, and the hurt look on her face made the guilt ridden Hanschen die inside, just for a brief moment. “You lied to me.  _ Again _ .” Hanschen said nothing. Sofia began to tear up, but she refused to let herself cry. Not in front of him. “You lied to me! You told me these paintings were commissions. Is that true? Are you  _ commissioning him  _ now?”

 

“No! I mean, yes. No. I lied to you. I haven’t given him a scrap of money for these painti-”

 

“Then how did they get here, Hanschen? Why do you have so many?”

 

“He sends them to me, I don’t ask-”

 

“God, you’re so…” She let out a frustrated grunt, unable to summon up the words to describe how she felt about him in that moment. Her grip on the painting tightened. “You never learn! When will you understand that if you keep on acting like a...a reckless little  _ slut, _ that there will be consequences for your actions!”  _ Snap.  _ The wooden frame of the canvas was split in two, tearing the canvas as it was. 

 

There was a stunned silence from both parties for a brief moment, only interrupted by the clatter as Sofia threw the painting to the floor. She glared at Hanschen for a moment, and he saw the cyclone that was about to hit his study from a mile away. His eyes pleaded with her, silently,  _ please, don’t do it. Don’t do this to me.  _ And then she grabbed a painting off the wall, pausing for a brief moment only to slam it down on her knee, breaking it in two. Methodically, yet in such a range that her movements were messy, and angry, she moved along the wall, throwing paintings and snapping frames and making holes. Hanschen stood helplessly, knowing if he intervened it would be he who would suffer the abuse, not his paintings. And so he watched, helpless, as his wife destroyed months of work, paintings created by the lover who adored him so much that he spent what seemed like all his days painting for a  _ selfish fool  _ in Munich. 

 

Sofia stormed over to Hanschen, and for a moment he was convinced she would strike him. But instead, she just stared up at him, the anger in her eyes glazed over with tears. “You don’t deserve this kind of love from anyone.” She gestured to the broken paintings strewn around the room. “That man is a fool for loving you. I’ve changed my mind, and perhaps if he knew who you really were, the suffering I have been through, he would too.”

 

She made her way to the door, and Hanschen turned to watch her go. “You have defiled his family. You have defiled this relationship, and perhaps more importantly, to you in any case, you have defiled that poor man’s dignity. If you hadn’t entertained the poor man the way you did, perhaps he wouldn’t be a pathetic fool pining over something like  _ you _ .” Hanschen stood amongst the rubble of his failed attempt at keeping some of the love he once felt in his life, staring speechlessly at his wife. The tiniest bit of hope, ruined and broken around him. He broke, stood there in the middle of his study, stumbling back against his desk as he looked at the mess around him, the mess he had caused, and cried. 

 

“Your son would be so disappointed in you.”

* * *

The past several days had gone by agonizingly slow - Johanna spending hours at a time in the study, and Hanschen and Sofia arguing when they thought no one was listening. The only Rilow who seemed unperturbed by Lammermeier’s news was Robert, which was expected of him, being only two years old.

 

Lammermeier, meanwhile, spent his days cooped up in his room. It was his younger sister who was sent after him, to bring him food and try to coax him out. Yet she failed every time, plates of food stacking in his room and Lammermeier still not budging.

 

When he did come out, it was an April evening, and the house was peaceful, for once. With soft footsteps, he made his way to the bathroom, turning the light on and closing the door behind him - his mother had long removed the locks, but everyone else being busy should’ve been insurance enough. He made his way to the bathtub, turning on the faucet and letting the water flow until it got close to the lip, not letting it go over.

 

Lammermeier had made up his mind days ago.  He stepped into the bath.  _ I’ve nothing left to lose.  _ Sat down, leaning against the side of the tub.  _ I just have to close my eyes.  _ Slid down under the water.  _ I’ll see him again. _

 

The boy had spent hours the past week crying over Icarus. He’d reread every letter twice, thought of every memory with him, read every journal entry that mentioned him. He’d run out of tears, and with them, it felt as though he’d emptied himself of everything inside him, both good and bad. He’d lost the energy to shed anymore tears, but he’d also lost the energy for any more smiles. 

 

A part of him felt terrible knowing what was happening to his family. The sad, lingering looks Johanna gave him before leaving his room. His loving father’s hesitant knocks at his door, before changing his mind and turning on his heel. His mother’s coldness.  And yet, it wasn’t enough to change his mind.

 

Lammermeier didn’t fight the water flooding his mouth, throat, lungs. It was painful, but he’d felt pain far worse. He found it harder and harder to conjure up thoughts as his mind kept blanking. He was simply resigned, detached.

 

And then, he wasn’t in the clouds anymore. He could feel arms on his shoulders, grabbing him out of the water, grounding him. Lammermeier distantly realised he’d been pulled out of the water and onto the tile floor, and he started coughing violently,  keeling over as he sputtered out the last of the water in his lungs. The last thing he could remember before blacking out was being held, slowly rocking back and forth as his father wept softly and whispered his name.  _ I’m here. You’re okay. You’re safe.  _ In that moment, Lammermeier wished to do nothing more than reassure his father, but exhaustion had crept into his every bone, into his heart, and all he could do was close his eyes.

* * *

When Lammermeier woke up, he was in his bed, dressed in his pajamas, the sun shining softly through the blinds- he could almost fool himself that it was an ordinary day, that nothing at all had happened. He swung his legs over the bed and got up to get dressed. Then, he heard his name being called out, and the spell of normality broke.

 

“Lammermeier! Come into the living room!” his mother’s voice rang out.

 

He opened his bedroom door and made his way to the heart of the house, the sitting area. He hesitated before turning to walk through the archway, sensing the tension in the air. When he did, he came face to face with his parents, who were sitting on the couch. His father was resting his elbows on his knees, looking anywhere around the room but at his son. His mother was standing up straight, an unreadable, pensive look on her face. For many seconds, the only sound made was that of the clock ticking. It was Lammermeier who broke the silence.

 

“Yes, mama? You called for me.”

 

“I did, Lammermeier. I suppose you know what this is about, don’t you?”

 

“I don’t… What did I do?”

 

At this, Sofia seemed almost bewildered for a split second, before returning to her neutral expression. “Your father and I have talked and we’ve decided it would be best for everyone if you left.”

 

A beat of silence. Lammermeier huffed softly. “What? You can’t be serious, mama.” The boy looked at her, expecting her to say it was all a joke, but she didn’t, and he could feel anxiety bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. “Why? I don’t… I don’t understand…”

 

“You’re 16. At your age, plenty of boys are already living on their own, earning their own wages. It’s about time you faced the real world.” Seeing her son’s still confused look, she grew frustrated. “In any case, you’ve disregarded every teaching and value of this household. I thought letting you grow free would aid you - I thought wrong.”

 

“Mama, where is any of this coming from? How can I move out? I haven’t even finished my studies yet - I’ve one year left of school! And what about university? No, I won’t leave, and I don’t believe you seriously think I would!”  He turned to his father, pleading. “Dad, tell her!”

 

“Lammermeier, you are getting on my nerves!” Sofia said, her voice rising. “The decision is final! You are to leave by next week. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such talk from you. You were such a pleasant boy…. before  _ him _ .”

 

“Him, mama?  _ Him? _ Say his name- Icarus!” replied Lammermeier, voice cracking at the mention of the dead boy’s name. “He’s rotting in a lake now! The very least you could do is say his name!” Tears were starting to well up in his eyes, but he swiped at his face before they could roll down his cheeks- he would not cry now.  “Dad!” Lammermeier looked at his father, his eyes begging him to intervene, but Hanschen didn’t do so much as lift his gaze. The pleading eyes turned into a glare directed towards his father. “At least I was honest about it, I told you, mother, months ago!” 

 

Sofia got up, approaching him. “I don’t care what his name is or how he’s rotting! You’ve disrespected me, you’ve disrespected your father, everything we’ve ever done for you. You weren’t raised at the height of luxury, with everything you could ever dream of, just to start sneaking off into the woods to kiss other boys! Frankly, I find myself disgusted. God only knows what made you think any of this is acceptable, to say I’m disappointed would be an understatement. You must learn your lesson, and this is the only way I see fit. This discussion is over, Lammermeier.”

 

“Really, because I find it ha-”

 

Sofia interrupted, raising her voice “I said the discussion is  _ over _ !”

 

Ignoring her, Lammermeier continued, shouting, now. “Really, because I find it hard to believe I’ve disappointed father of all people! Shouldn’t he get the same treatment? You want to throw me out for loving Icarus when your husband’s fucking queer!” The last words were spit out, rather than spoken, and now they were hanging in the air, echoing and replaying over and over again.

 

The boy felt the cold hand of his mother striking him across the cheek, but it wasn’t as hard or brutal as in the times before. Turning his head around, Lammermeier saw her holding back tears.

 

It was stunned silence. Lammermeier glanced at his father, who, for the first time since the conversation had started, looked up at him, guilt and hurt and pain plastered on his face, but still remaining silent. 

 

Then came a whisper that deafened him:

 

“Get out.”

 

Lammermeier didn’t need anymore convincing.

 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Hey you! Do you like Flowers of Spring? Do you like livestreams? Then join us for our Flowers of Spring Finale Livestream on Saturday April 28th @ 7PM BST/2PM EST! We’ll be talking about the entire fic, answering your questions, playing some games, doing general Spring Awakening related THINGS and more to celebrate the final chapter of Flowers of Spring coming out. 
> 
> We hope to see you there!

_“Talk me through the events, Herr Rilow.” **  
**_

_Hanschen sat in the man’s office, in a comfortable armchair on the opposite side of the desk. “I’ve told my story to enough of you. Can’t you read it on a file somewhere?”_

_“Please, Herr Rilow. Just once more.”_

_Hanschen sighed, and then began. “It was a Saturday afternoon. Sunny…August.  Sofia, my wife, and I decided to take our son, Robert, to a park. He was…three at the time. There was a festive air about the place. Families walking together, children playing, ice cream sellers…A bandstand. Sofia and I walked down the path by the green, where families were picnicking, Robert in between us, holding our hands._

_“There were attractions dotted around the park. A balloon seller, ducks in a small pond which you hooked to win prizes. And a pony and cart, in which rides could be taken. Robert, balloon in hand, of course, was fascinated, and wanted to take a closer look, and so we took him over. We had bought the balloon previously in the day, a green one. His favourite colour, at the time at least._

_“Anyway, we headed over to the horse and cart, which only had two seats, and so I allowed my wife and my son to ride, whilst I stood and watched. Robert seemed happy enough, although the two quickly disappeared out of sight. I had been informed before they had ridden off that they would be dropped off at the other end of the park, where they could then take a ‘scenic walk’ back down to where I waited for them. I decided to head up towards the other end of the park, to meet them halfway, at the least.”_

_Hanschen sighed, and paused for a moment. The man ushered him to continue, and so he complied. “I reached the halfway point, and saw my wife and son in the distance, climbing out of the horse and cart. I saw how close the cart had stopped to the road, but I didn’t take much notice.” Another sigh, shaky and slow. “I didn’t take much notice until I had almost reached them, and Robert ran out into the road.” Hanschen stopped, again, and it was obvious to the man that whatever the ending to the story was, it was difficult to tell. “I ran toward him, as did my wife, but by the time my wife had almost reached him…”_

_“Yes?”_

_“…A car sped toward them. Straight into my son…” The man noticed the other tear up, although he continued to talk. “My wife was also hit by the car, but she was only knocked. Her shoulder was broken, but my son…My beautiful son…” He doubled over, resting his head in his hands as he softly began to sob. He allowed himself a very brief moment, before looking back up to the man, tears in his eyes, but determined to finish. “My son, he…he died on impact. I saw his little arm, crooked, and his legs all…” He shook his head, aggressively wiping tears from his eyes with a fist. “His body laid on the ground, dead.”_

_“And your wife?”_

_“Her wounds healed. Though I fear mine may never.”_

_“I’m sorry, I don’t understand?”_

_“You wouldn’t.” Hanschen rose from his seat, his gaze a million miles away. “Good day, Herr Schreiber.”_

_“Herr Rilow-“_

_“I’ll be in touch.”  He moved to the door, pulling on his coat._

_“Herr Rilow, if you could just-“_

_He turned, nodding to the man. “Good day, sir.” And so he left._

 

* * *

Five became four, became three. Days turned into weeks, turned into months, turned into a year. The Rilow household felt different now. The large garden so perfect for parties was silent, and still. You felt the weight of every member of the house on your shoulders the minute you walked through the door, the air thick and heavy, something bad lingering like the feeling when you know someone is staring at the back of your head. The Rilow household did not receive guests anymore. They did not receive invitations either. The neighbors saw the poor father’s tired, worn face when he would occasionally leave the house for work, or shopping. He no longer stopped to say hello. They felt pity for him, especially when that tired face was spotted with purple, yellow, red and black. There was a sense of foreboding that followed him wherever he went, strong enough to sense from the safety of their kitchen window, peering out to get a peak at the man who was never seen with his wife. Rumors, whispers spread around that he and his wife no longer slept in the same bed. Rumors of infidelity. Rumors of something unlawful. Rumors of something more...sinful. The house was just as tainted as the people living inside.

The villa had grown soulless over the years. The house felt empty, despite the three souls residing within. No more sounds of little feet running on the hardwood floors. No more laughter filling the house as the oldest brought home friends or lovers. In their absence, all that remained were distant, empty gazes and a feeling of coldness that could not be helped by putting more logs in the fireplace. The boys’ shadows lingered, in the back of the kitchen, the study, in the corner of the Rilows’ eyes. They all seemed to notice it, yet no one said a word.

Johanna had grown up in two years as much as others did in five. She’d always been a reserved child, yet now she seemed utterly closed off. Neither of her parents had ever truly spoken to her about her brothers, one’s disappearance and one’s death, so she was left to deal with it alone. When she thought she was alone, she weeped, only to put on an unaffected mask right after.

In a way, she felt cheated. She’d grown used to her life, which, albeit not ravishingly exciting, was comfortable and familiar. She would spend hours reading with her father in his study, take care of Robert, go to the shops with her mama. And yet, it all came crashing down in a matter of months, and all the while she was being kept in the dark, all her questions left unanswered. She used to often ponder why this was her fate, but now she’d long given up, settling for just making the best of everything, skimming off the cream.

Hanschen hadn’t slept in his bedroom in years, now residing in his study. He went about his days numbly, going to work, getting back home, working, going to sleep. He tried, as much as possible, to be there for his daughter, but the magic of them simply reading together seemed to have fizzled out, thousands of words hanging in the air between them, unspoken.

Hanschen Rilow had weathered worse storms, had lived through worse times. The years had molded him into a man able to accept that, maybe, he won’t be satisfied. Not every fairytale ended with a true love’s kiss and a handsome prince, and Hanschen Rilow could live with that. Couldn’t he? Sometimes, the fighting wasn’t worth it, so it was better to live with what he got.

Sofia never changed, or so one would think. Her gaze was as calculating and cold as ever, her words as tight and brusque. However, there was something new about her, a sadness hidden deep inside her, that sometimes flickered, ruining the impassive facade. A quick turn of the lips, a shifting of the gaze towards a family portrait. Rarely, a stray tear quickly wiped away.

Many a times, in the dark of the night, her pen would hover over a piece of paper, reading only “ _Dear Lammermeier,_ ”. The almost-letters were never much longer than that, as Sofia was always at a loss, searching and scanning her mind for the right words, always failing. The pen would drip a fat drop of ink onto the paper and she would crumple it up, angry at herself for even trying.

But those were rare, private moments. For all intents and purposes, Sofia was the head of the Rilow household, the rumours of her husband being weak and broken becoming an agreed upon truth, rather than a whisper. For her remaining child, she felt the need to keep up appearances, and so she did. The whisperers had no right to know every parentheses and footnote of her story.

Thus lived the Rilows. Their blinds were always drawn and their once-famous garden parties remained only as ghosts which haunted the yard. When their name was spoken, a look of disdain accompanied it- their seemingly sudden reclusiveness only strengthened the whisper of what they must be hiding. The book of their life was closed before anyone could read the final chapter, and they decided it was best kept that way.

 

* * *

Sofia headed down the hall from the bathroom, clad in a silk dressing gown. Her daughter was in bed, and she hadn't see Hanschen since dinner, and assumed he was upstairs, in the other bathroom. He would never step foot in the downstairs bathroom, not since April of 1911. Several years had gone by, and still he refused to go in. As Sofia walked up the stairs, she took in the closed doors on the landing, as she often did. Only three doors ever remained open; her bedroom, Johanna’s bedroom, and the bathroom. The two remaining doors stayed tightly shut. But today, she noticed, one more door was open, just slightly, a small slither of moonlight shining out onto the adjacent wall of the hallway.

Sofia crept, quietly, over to the door, dread chilling her bones as she slowly pushed it open. Sat on the small bed that once belonged to their youngest son was Hanschen, a book clutched in his hand, and a stuffed bear on his lap. Other than the jig of his knee, he was perfectly still, moonlight flooding onto his back. He stared at the wall, his face shadowed but even so Sofia could see the glisten of his damp cheeks.

She slowly walked into the room, gently closing the door to behind her. Still, he didn't move. She wasn't sure if he hadn't noticed her or not, so she made sure to walk within his line of sight, slowly sitting down beside him. As she did, he turned, slowly leaning towards her and resting against her side. She felt his shoulders judder as he silently sobbed, and it made her stiffen up and her stomach knot. Gently, she wrapped her arms around the grieving man, sat in the dark on a child’s bed. The comfort she had deprived him of for years. And yet he let her. Welcomed it, as if all he’d been waiting for was this. Sofia realized in the moment that she hadn't touched her husband in months, and it was even longer since since it had been in any loving, comforting or familial way. She rested her head against his, letting her thumb stroke his upper arm.

“I miss them so much, Sofia,” he whispered after a long while of dead silence.

She didn't respond. She knew she didn't need to. Lying would do him no good, and separating her eldest son from her youngest would do nothing but cause more suffering in her husband. And so she nodded, finding herself more entwined with him than she had started. She didn't even notice as the two of them ended up laid down, curled up in each other's arms on the small boy’s bed, comforting her husband as he cried himself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

_The two sat chattering on the sofa after dinner, words dissolving into giggles and sighs with every passing moment._

_“You mean to tell me,” Hanschen asked, pointing to the other with a grin, “that your father let you travel all the way to Berlin on your own just in the hopes that you would run away with me and he wouldn’t have to pay for the wedding?”_

_“He was joking, of course, Hanschen!” Sofia laughed, shaking her head and resting against the other. “Although I wouldn’t put it past my father to plan it that way.”_

_“You must have known my parents would have paid for everything, surely.”_

_“My father was certainly hoping so.” They both laughed at this, taking sips from their wine glasses in between giggles and words. “And besides, he was insistent that I was to marry to Rilow boy even if he had to pay for everything himself._

_“Well, lucky for him, my parents were rather insistent that I was to marry the young and beautiful Sofia Hirsch whether I wanted to or not.”_

_“And did you want to?” She raised an eyebrow curiously, a devious smirk on her lips._

_“Of course not!”_

_“Hanschen!”_

_“No, of course I did. I wouldn’t have already done so if I didn’t.”_

_“I thought you said you were going to marry me whether you wanted to or not.”_

_“Well, then, I guess it’s a good thing I did, or otherwise my parents would probably hate me a lot more than they already do.”_

_“What?”_

_He cleared his throat. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”_

_“Hanschen, don’t try to change the-”_

_“Really, you’re just- Beautiful.”_

_Sofia laughed, shaking her head at him. “Fine, if you don’t want to address the rather concerning thing you just said, then we won’t.”_

_“See? This is why I married you.”_

_“And not because your parents forced you to?”_

_“Of course not.” He leant over, resting a hand on his wife’s cheek and kissing her gently, the kiss soon turning into several light, tiny kisses, peppering his face and neck, tracing his fingers over her sides, which lightly tickled her when exposed to her bare skin._

_“Hanschen, stop!” she giggled, trying to resist against his arms but instead finding herself more tangled up in them. “Hanschen get your hands off of me I am pregnant.” She finally managed to push him off of her, the two of them laying on the sofa with a mix of chuckles and shallow breaths escaping their lips._

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you too, Hans.” A smile played on her lips as she slowly and awkwardly sat herself up. “I’m going to do the washing up, and then we can head to bed-”_

_“No, no, no, I’ll do the washing up, you get yourself ready for bed.” Hanschen heaved himself up out of the sofa, only to be pushed back again by his wife._

_“If you step foot in that kitchen I will come in there and drag you by your shirt collar and tie up to bed myself.”_

_“Well, I won’t argue with that. At least let me help you clear away the tableware?”_

_“...Fine.”_

 

* * *

As the weeks passed, the two forged a close bond, fashioned by the need for comfort, and the knowledge that someone else was feeling the same hurt as the other. Trauma, it is commonly said, brings people together, and that could definitely be said for the Rilows. The relationship was hesitant, and cautious, but it was there, and subtly thriving more than it had in years.

Sofia sat on the sofa in front of the fire, Hanschen’s head rested on her lap. They stayed there, silently, both pairs on eyes on the crackling flames. They spent their evenings like this, on days where it had been particularly tough on them, comforting one another in silence, the only source of light the dim glow of the fire. It wasn’t loving, but it wasn’t harsh. Comfort was what both Rilows needed, and so they provided that for one another, and in the process, discovered an odd newfound appreciation for the other. A glimmer of what drew them together in the first place. A glimmer of what persuaded Hanschen that this was the woman he wanted to be with. A glimmer of the thought that, perhaps, nothing forced his hand, that he did have a choice, and this was the choice he had made.

He thought, over the last few weeks, that perhaps life could go back to how it was. He, and his wife, and his children - his  _child_  - content with life, and how things were. He’d go to work, come home, spend the afternoon with his child and the evening with his wife. As he laid on the couch, head in her lap, he remembered his days as a twenty-something year old, newly married and utterly in love with a beautiful woman. At night, when he couldn’t sleep, he would take out a notebook and draw. Charcoal drawings, simple but skilfully drawn, candid drawings of his wife. Her curves, and shape, somewhat shielded by the bed covers, mapped out in the small notebook. He had kept it, and it remained on his bookshelf. Sometimes he considered bringing it back out, but he never did. He wanted to, recently, but he couldn’t bring himself to pick it up. Despite everything, he still slept alone, and the memories that the notebook contained were not what he needed at this point in his life. He needed to start anew. He had begun this, starting with Sofia, and they were in a place where one could say there was solidarity.

He reached out, and gently took her hand in his, which up until now had been idly playing with his hair. She intertwined her fingers with his, and he felt the ring on her finger, cold against his skin. He was sure she felt his too, although he touched his ring, and twisted it around his finger so often that perhaps it was warm to the touch. He turned into her, then slowly sat himself up, and as he did, he distantly noticed that she smelt of honeysuckle.

“We should go to bed,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Sofia nodded, their fingers struggling to untangle as the separated from one another. They both stood up, almost simultaneously, and Sofia sleepily wrapped her arms around Hanschen’s arm as they walked together into the hallway. As they reached the staircase, it took a long, lingering moment for Sofia to pry herself off of Hanschen, like a limpet attached to a rock. She looked up at him, slowly blinking with an ever so small smile. “Goodnight, Hans.”

“Goodnight.” He softly kissed her cheek, resting his hand on her arm. They stood for a moment, and Sofia saw the sad eyes she saw every night before they parted to sleep. Sad, beautiful, deep brown eyes. She looked away from him, and turned, slowly pulling her dressing gown around herself and heading up the stairs. Hanschen watched her go, his eyes following her up until she was out of sight. And then he made his way to his study, his bedroom, his eyes lingering on the bathroom door as he moved past it.

Despite everything, he thought as he got himself ready for bed every night, despite the compassion and understanding and solidarity between them, the life he was living was no life at all. His daughter, his wife, himself, three lonely souls haunting a house that was once so alive and bright. It was as if when the son with hair the colour of the sun, and the child with the gleaming smile, had gone, so had the soul of the house with them. So had the sun.

That night, Hanschen decided he would leave. The ever-growing nag in the back of his mind had finally won its battle with him. Somewhere, deep inside, he knew settling with the hand he’d been dealt wasn’t in his nature, that no matter how much he distanced himself from his feelings and reality, he couldn’t live the rest of his life that way.

He was in his study, as always, when he got up and walked over to the writing desk, picking up a pen and paper, and writing:

_Sofia,_

_Whatever words I put down in this letter would not make up for all the ones we should’ve said to each other, and all the ones we shouldn’t have. But it would feel improper to leave without giving this to you._

_You’re an intelligent woman, so I’m certain you knew this fitful coexistence would not last a lifetime. I am happy, however, that we ended it on a  more pleasant note, a tiny looking-glass into what our life used to be. Over the years, many regrets have piled on, but two things i do not regret- our marriage, firstly, and, secondly, despite everything, Ernst._

_We can indulge ourselves in the if’s and would-have-been’s, what we could’ve done differently, whether any of this was avoidable. Though you may think it, I don’t see you as cruel, and I’d like to believe you don’t think me weak. I never hated you, I couldn’t bring myself to, even when you tore the paintings or burned the letters. Perhaps I am more worthy of your disdain than you are of mine, or perhaps not. At the end of the day, what does it matter?_

_I know you’re more than capable to raise Johanna on your own, and though I regret her not having a father any longer, I’m not sure if she even had one, these past years, in any case. If nothing else, tell her I love her, and I hope she will forgive me someday._

_I suppose a better man would end this with forgiveness. However, my fondness for you is not enough to forgive you, Sofia. I loved you, I truly did, but I cannot offer you this._

_Hanschen_

After signing the letter, Hanschen placed it in an envelope, before stepping out of the room to leave it on the living room table, where it was sure to be found. When he went to bed he, for once, thought of nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he woke at noon, later than he’d done in years. As soon as he’d opened his eyes, he could sense that there was an something off in the house. He couldn’t quite place it, it was as though the air was trying to tell him something but he couldn’t hear it, as though he hadn’t truly woken up and he was still in a dreamland. Cautiously, he swung his legs over his bed and got up, taking tentative steps outside of his study.

As he stepped into the hallway, the foreboding atmosphere seemed to only grow more pronounced, once Hanschen left his sanctuary. He felt a chill run down his spine, the house felt cold and unlived in, despite the radiators working at full capacity.

Hanschen reached the living room, and immediately noticed the letter, still on the table where he’d left it the previous night, the envelope torn. Sofia had read it, but there was no reply, no note from her. In a way, he felt hurt, thinking that she’d read the letter which he’d poured his soul into, only to dismiss it, forgetting about it as soon as she was finished with it. Other than the opened letter, nothing about the living room had changed. It was as though he’d been sleeping for years, just now waking up to see he’d been left behind by the sands of time, in a house that no longer felt like home.

In the back of his mind, a thought was forming, which, despite his best efforts, was making itself more an more present by the second. No, it isn’t so, I know it isn’t. He kept trying to reassure himself, despite knowing full well that he was ignoring reason in favor of hope.

He made his way to Sofia’s bedroom, though it was more as if his legs carried him there, suspicion and dread growing ever stronger with each step, his heart beating faster and faster. Soon enough, he was in front of the door, and his hand hovered over the doorknob. He knew that whatever happened could not be altered, but another part of him was telling him that by stepping into the room, his life would change beyond repair. The door opened with a soft lick, opening up Sofia’s bedroom, and confirming Hanschen’s fear, his stomach dropping.

On the bed were clothes messily spread about, and the wardrobe stood wide open, emptied of most of its contents. Sofia’s suitcase was gone, as was her purse and jewelry. There wasn’t any letter on the bed or vanity. She had left.

Hanschen stood, dumbfounded, for what could’ve been hours, staring at the messy room in disbelief. In truth, he knew he was being irrational- after all, he’d just left a letter of goodbye, he wasn’t planning to ever see Sofia again. So why, then, was he so affected by her leave? He realised, hypocritically, how sour the taste of abandonment is, and yet he was just as willing as Sofia to leave everything behind.

He couldn’t bear to stand uselessly in the doorway for any longer, so he started walking around the house aimlessly, haunting the halls of the house  like a ghost. For the first time in many years, Hanschen was truly alone, and he distantly recognized that he deserved it. After all, he was ready to leave his wife of almost 20 years with nothing more than a letter as explanation, an undeniably cruel act. He left Ernst, many years ago, with even less, as he boarded a train to Berlin and never returned. Those who loved Hanschen Rilow were time and time again abandoned, left behind to pick up the pieces broken by a selfish man with hair the color of the sun.

He was reminded, then, of a boy who also took what he wanted and left in his wake pain. Hanschen had thought he was so different from him, indulging himself by thinking that he’d never hurt anyone that way. And yet, being now faced with his sins, when he looked in the mirror he saw the man he wanted least to become. He hadn’t said his name in years, and now he feared that if he did, it would sound too much like his.

Thinking back, Hanschen couldn’t recall a time in his life when there was no one by his side. Ernst, kinder and more loving to him than he ever deserved, the eager boy from university who had fallen head over heels for him, Sofia, who he could not describe with words alone. He’d had lovers, he’d had a family, but now he was alone.

Once more, he was careless. Once more, he’d jumped straight in front of that damned train.

And so it was time to go.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. This is it. The end. I am so, so grateful for each and every person who took the time to read the story we wanted to tell. I’m sure Alex will make a post on Tumblr giving her two cents, but I wanted to say, from the bottom of my heart, thank-you. Thank-you so much for reading, liking, reblogging and experiencing our story. I want to thank you for falling in love with Lammermeier as much as I did (I love him a lot.) I want to thank you for all the times you’ve said ‘how dare you?’ to us. I want to thank so many people who have given us feedback as we’ve written this. I feel like I’m at an awards ceremony. One last thank-you! I want to thank our beautiful pals Mattie, Melodie and Mimi for validating us. Molly for being wonderful and supportive. Ike for being them (Thanks, lke. Sorry we killed you.) We’ve been told a few times how canon this story feels, and we couldn’t ask for a better compliment than that. So, I hereby present to you, after my ridiculously mushy and unnessecary authors note, Chapter 10, the finale of Flowers of Spring.
> 
> Yours, forever and always,
> 
> Lottie

********It was as if everything were in a haze. Hanschen threw the letter down on the bed, his knees failing him as he found himself falling onto the bed. He sat, shaking, unable to understand why this had affected him so. He was going to leave her. He didn’t want to be here. So then why was his world slowly crumbling around him? This was his fresh start. Suddenly his regret, remorse and guilt was overcome by a new emotion. An emotion Hanschen hadn't felt since childhood, not truly. A hint of it arose when his son, for the first time, had used his words against him, but it had never bubbled to the surface until now. **  
**

Hanschen felt rage.

He was angry at himself, angry for being careless and ruining things again. He was angry at his son, his stupid son, for taking things too far and getting kicked out for good. He was angry at the world for letting a villian who stole the life of a child go unpunished. He was angry at the man who had tore his family apart with his soft curls and brilliant smile. He was angry at his  _damned_ wife for once again ruining everything he wanted. He wanted to leave, and of course she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He grabbed the nearest object to him, a book laid on the bed, and threw it, hard against the wall. It hit the wall with a thud, clattering to the floor and falling open. Hanschen stared at the book, just for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. 

Hanschen hurried out of the room, not realizing until now that he was crying. He aggressively wiped away his tears with the heel of his palm, taking the stairs two at a time. He stormed through the hallways, straight to his study, and looked around for a moment. Darting over to his desk, he grabbed a single item:  _the letter._  The last remaining letter he had saved all those years ago.

He clutched it in his hands, and seemingly for a moment, his anger disappeared. But he soon stuffed the letter in his trouser pocket and headed back out of the door. He moved quickly, at the front door in a second, coat in hand and then around him. He was out the door in a flash, the only things on his person a wallet and that precious, precious letter.

He wasn’t thinking, he knew he wasn’t, but somehow he could bare to spend another minute inside that house. He didn’t know where he was going, but his legs seemed to, and so he followed his heart - or his head, at this point he couldn’t tell which - all the way down the country lane he lived on. Neighbours watched as the distressed, messy and frantic Herr Rilow moved down the road and out of sight, in the direction of the train station.

The air helped clear hard, calm his range, but the distress remained. He was broken, or so he thought, never to be fixed. His family had discarded him, like a broken toy that you were once so fond of but now only see as trash, something to get rid of. Something that no longer belonged. Hanschen no longer belonged in that house. The ghosts that haunted him deserved better than his presence. He missed home. That was not his home. Home was garden parties, and soft kisses, and books, and joy, and love. The house he left was filled with nothing but silence, and remorse, and the weight of every mistake he had ever made. He filed through them in his head, _Sofia, his angel, Robert, his pride, his joy, Lammermeier, and sweet, sweet Johanna._

_Ernst._

All these lives, ruined. Because of him. He thought of all the lives ruined by others, ruined by fate, and cursed that he too would suffer the same fate.  _Wendla. Moritz._

_Max._

The childhood faces he could barely remember but who’s memory pressed against his chest like a cold, dead weight.

And then he’d reached the train station. He looked up at the building, blinking away tears that hung on his eyelashes. He knew this was where he belonged. He knew that whatever happened, he would end up back here. This was the first time, Hanschen realized as he stood there, taking in the weight of the situation, that he had visited the train station on his own volition. Every other time, something had brought him here.

A letter had brought him here. But not this time. He knew that whatever he chose, stepping into this train station would lead to the end of the line.

And so he stepped inside.

* * *

 

_“Open it, father, go on, open it!”_

_The two eldest children watched their father with big eyes, sat around the fire. The presents under the tree had been unwrapped and the children were sat amongst the collateral damage. Well, all except one. In Hanschen’s hands sat a long, small, neatly wrapped box, with a brown label - ‘Love Santa Claus’. It certainly wasn’t his wife’s handwriting. His wife looked equally confused at the box, but his children waited eagerly, wanting to see what Santa had brought their father._

_And so he gingerly unwrapped the box, being careful not to tear the paper too much. He slowly pulled the lid off the box, scanning the contents for a brief moment. A beautiful brass fountain pen lay in a cushion of velvet. Reflecting the light of the fire, it almost seemed to glow. He stared at the pen, feeling his cheeks flushing pink and hot. The children looked disappointed._

_“What a beautiful gift,” Sofia said, cooly. Hanschen looked up at his wife, whose eyes were fixed on the pen. He instantly looked back down, to his lap, and closed the box._

_“Yes, quite,” he said quietly, slowly pushing himself up off the floor to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I-” He faltered for a moment. “...I think I left one last gift in the study.” He moved out of the room, and as soon as he was safe behind the door of his study, almost collapsed against the desk. With a shaky hand, he placed the box onto his desk, sitting down on the surface and wrapping his arms around himself._

_Ernst._

_He’d forgotten about him. He’d received plenty of letters of good cheer and christmas wishes that he’d forgotten that he haven't received a letter in months. Because he wasn’t sending a letter. He was sending a gift._

_Hanschen shook his hard violently, clutching his shirt sleeves tightly on his upper arms as he held himself. His life was going wonderfully, with his third child on the way and two more beautiful children around him. His loving wife, radiant and wonderful, and a home that he could call his own. So why did he hurt so much whenever he thought about the sweet boy he fell in love with all those years ago? Why would he shake, and cry, and hurt? He might never know. Hanschen picked up the pen one last time, opening the box, and noticed an engraving in the brass._

_‘Yours, forever and always.’_

* * *

 

Standing on the platform, Hanschen was faced with his life. In front of him stood every path, every road taken, and those he’d chosen not to go down, too. A million lives he could’ve lived, but only one he chose. He could’ve lost himself in the dreams of what could’ve been, but he chose not to. Now he had little choice. Now, he was at the end of the road, in front of him stretching out only the woods. For all Munich knew or cared, Hanschen Rilow was dead. He decided he liked that.  
  
As the train's whistle grew louder and louder, drowning out all other sounds, Hanschen thought of two men - the one who'd been here before, a passing shadow in his life, a mirror; and a man who was miles away, whose smile was the world's greatest treasure, a dream.   
  


That smile. A smile so bright, so genuine and warm. A smile that ruined him.

His mind always seemed to wander back to Ernst. In the years they'd known each other, they'd spent more time apart than they did together, and yet his image was as clear as day in Hanschen's mind, every detail memorized: the pale freckles on his cheeks on which Hanschen left innumerable pecks. His dark brown hair, tousled by the wind. His voice, soft and warm, but which could also spit scorching flames, jeers and criticisms that you felt for days. The way he moved as though an orchestra was playing a tune only he could hear. Though it was in Hanschen's nature to blame others for his fate, he never could it in his heart to be bitter towards Ernst.

_“Hurry up, Hanschen!”_

_The two boys ran through the streets of the small town in which they lived, schoolbags clutched tightly so as to stop them bashing into their sides, or other people. “If we don’t hurry, my father will have finished his sermon! Hurry!”_

_Hanschen lagged behind. Not because he couldn’t keep up, but because, quite honestly, going to church with Ernst straight after school on a Friday evening was not his idea of fun. His idea of fun was lazing about in a field of tall grass, with the beautiful dark haired boy tangled in his arms. But Ernst wanted church, and so he would go._

_He realized, soon enough, that he had gotten distracted, and had lost sight of Ernst. Frowning, he picked up his pace, close enough to the church that he reached it within a minute or two. As he was running he cursed Ernst’s long, slender legs, for the first time in his life. Hanschen finally reached the church, and slowed his pace as he made his way up the gravel path._

_Ernst stood in the doorway of the church, starting with sparkling eyes at what was happening within. As Hanschen got closer, he realized that Ernst was starting at his father, up in front of the congregation preaching something or other about loving thy neighbour, whatever that meant. Hanschen loved his neighbour and was chastised for it. He’d never understood what the Bible had that made it so special, but Ernst was borderline obsessed on learning the details, the lessons, the parables, the whole nine yards. Hanschen bet every penny in his pocket that Ernst could probably tell him what Jesus ate for breakfast the day before he was crucified. Ernst was absolutely set on becoming a pastor, and Hanschen, although unhappy with his decision, supported him. Especially when it meant getting to stare at his wonderful, freckled face and his gorgeous, wide, sparkling eyes just that little bit longer without him noticing._

_The sermon ended, and Ernst turned, the biggest, most beautiful smile that Hanschen had ever seen. A smile that made his heart skip a beat. “Ready to go?” Hanschen asked, casually, although inside it was taking all his strength and willpower not to grab the poor boy there and then and place his lips on his neck and tell him how much he wanted him._

_“Mhm!” Ernst nodded enthusiastically, his smile seemingly growing even more, which Hanschen had previously thought impossible until he’d witnessed it himself._

_“Then let’s go.” He held out his hand for Ernst to take, and he almost did, but hesitated, his smile suddenly fading from his face. Hanschen quickly realized what he’d done, and shoved his hand into his blazer pocket. ‘You’re such a fool’ he thought to himself. ‘Be more careful.’ The two stared at each other for a moment, then Hanschen lifted his chin and turned on his heel, beginning to head off. His cheeks flushed and his body ached and he wanted so badly to touch the beautiful, starry-eyed boy, to feel his skin against his. And then, as Ernst caught up, he felt his fingers brush against his and Hanschen almost doubled over, the wind practically knocked out of him. How was he so affected by this boy? He was nothing like Hanschen had ever seen before. This boy who unbuttoned the collar of his shirt which exposed his neck and soft, warm skin dotted with freckles and god, he loved him. More than his Io. More than his Desdemona. More than his fleeting crush on the good-looking boy in his class who had caught his eye. He loved Ernst, more than he’d ever loved anyone. And this evening, at the vineyard, he would tell him._

The simple realisation struck him as more and more people filed onto the platform, and though the station was filling up, he felt as though he was the last man on Earth. God, I love him.  It was then he felt the cold metal on his finger. His ring. His wedding ring. He twisted it around his finger, toying with the idea, before pulling it off. Hanschen held the ring in his hand, in a closed fist against his chest, feeling the cold, cold metal against his palm. The cold grounded him. Hanschen inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, taking in the ring of the engine, the rapid chatter and shuffling of feet. The soft tinkle of metal as the ring fell from his first to the tracks below. And the train grew closer yet.

He was prepared, now, to take the leap.

* * *

 

It was a pleasant afternoon, the setting sun bathing everything in a deep orange glow, the air hanging with the rich aroma of the flowers of spring. The well-trod path that lead from the church to the small house was once again being walked by Pastor Robel. He could’ve walked the snaking way home with his eyes closed. And sometimes he did, losing himself in the tranquility of pure silence, the few moments where he wasn’t expected to be anyone-not Pastor Robel, the pillar of support, not Ernst, the lover.

Years had passed since he’d last seen Hanschen, and in the predictable yet enjoyable motion of his life, that weekend stood out, the memory of it still as detailed as when it was first forged.  He’d turned it over and over in his mind, much like how he did with Hanschen’s first letter, the cold, distant goodbye and that vineyard, 20 years ago. If nothing else, Ernst could always retreat to his thoughts, taking out moments in time and replaying them as one would take out photographs and read the notes scribbled on the back.

He did, however, come to as he reached his street. Looking to the right, he could see the Pfeiffers’ house, and, on the front porch, Kurt and Dieter were huddled over homework, scratching of pens interrupted every now and then by giggles and fingers fumbling to intertwine. Seeing them so carefree brought a smile to Ernst's face and he knew they'd both taken to heart his advice. All they needed now was luck, which he could only pray they'll have. Just before continuing on his way, he saw Mathilde come out of the house and set out lemonade for them, an easy smile on her face. How the Pfeiffers managed to live unperturbed by whispers or rumours was beyond him, but he could only be happy for them, despite having never had the luxury to do the same.

He turned right to reach his own yard, when he looked up and saw a figure on his porch. Ernst approached, getting closer so as to try and see who it was. A tall man, his back turned to him, and next to him two bags. His hair- golden, shining in the soft light of the sun. Ernst's breath was caught in his throat and a million thoughts raced about his mind, and he felt like everything inside of him, every cell and every drop of blood, was pushing him forward.

He couldn't remember moving his legs, he could've floated for all he knew. Now, Ernst was at the base of the steps, but the man with the golden hair was still lost in his own world and didn't notice anything. It must've taken Ernst years to untie his tongue, but eventually he did, and his voice broke as soon as he opened his mouth to say the name.

“Hanschen?” it was a mere whisper, but behind it were hidden a million unspoken words.

At that, the man was finally brought back to reality, and his head snapped around, coming face to face with Ernst, staring with wide blue eyes. That's when Ernst’s heart stopped. Blue eyes.  _Blue eyes_. Blue eyes that  _weren’t_  Hanschen’s. He felt disappointment wash over him, though he knew, rationally, it was not this man's fault that he wasn't who Ernst had wished he was. Still, it took a lot for the misplaced betrayal to not show.

Ernst took a moment to look at him, and a suspicion was beginning to form in the back of his mind. This stranger, though certainly not Hanschen, reminded him uncannily so of him. The hair, the face…  something he couldn’t quite decipher. Regardless of his confusion, Ernst spoke:

“Can I help you?”

It was then that the boy seemed to snap out of his thoughts, and it dawned on him that he’d been silent the whole time. His face reddened and he looked down in embarrassment for a second, before snapping his head back up and answering:

“Hello, yes, you can. Sorry, I, um-” The boy seemed flustered. Embarrassed. Desperate. “I’m sorry to have showed up on your porch like this, but... but I need.. help. Are you Ernst-- Um, Pastor Robel?”

Ernst was intrigued, not knowing how the boy had learned his name, but decided to keep his questions for later. “Yes. And you are...?”

“I believe you know my father.” He swallowed, looking off to the side for a brief moment before looking back up at Ernst with those big, blue eyes. “My name is Lammermeier Rilow.”


End file.
